The Twelve Days of Earth-3
by Skalidra
Summary: The twelve days of Christmas, with the Owl-family! Alright, so characters and ratings vary wildly, but there is consistent Dick/Jason and Tim/Kon. No chronological sense, but all set in the same universe and story line. Featuring such prompts as 'Rocket Christmas Tree' and 'Wally/Ice Cream'. Enjoy!
1. Holiday Spirit

Hey everyone! So, November happened and I wrote _a lot_, but what came out of that is a huge fondness for, and massive store of stories from, the Earth-3 universe. This entire series is dedicated to Fox_the_Clever_Turnip over on Ao3 (Archive of our Own), for being awesome and giving me the prompt list for this, as well as inspiring me to write it all. She's amazing, and awesome, and I love her to little bits. This is my gift to her. XD

This first chapter is based off the prompt '**Dick/Jason, Bells**'.

And lastly, some notes about weird names you'll see in here. Nightingale is my Earth-3 equivalent of Nightwing (because this Dick is even more of an attention-whore than our canon Dick), and Lightning is Kid Flash (because, I quote, 'it strikes fast and fucks shit up'). Arsenal and Red Hood got to keep their names. You don't have to read any pairings into this piece, but it was written with Dick/Jason, Tim/Kon, and a hint of Jason/Roy in mind. Because when you get this many late teen/early twenties, morally questionable if not morally _devoid _people together, with little to no shame, there's going to be a lot of sex. XD

Enjoy!

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><p>"<em>Jason!<em>" The call is _furious_, Dick's voice raised in a way that's really rare and, this time, _totally _my fault. It nearly makes me proud.

I scoot a little further backwards into the air vent, regulating my breathing to be slow, careful, as I peer down through the grating. I flick my gaze briefly up to the door that Dick's shout echoed out of, settling my chin a little more firmly on top of my crossed arms as I watch the room below me, and settle in to wait.

Most of the team is here and I stifle the urge to grin, passing my gaze over Wally, in the kitchen of course, perched in front of the fridge; Roy, stretched out along one couch with his feet on one arm and his shoulders against the other, examining a collection of arrows piled next to him; Tim, on the other couch with his attention firmly focused on the laptop resting on his knees, both hands on the keyboard; Kon, leaned over that same couch behind my younger brother, watching his screen with something between stoicism and confusion; and the nearly inseparable duo that is Kori and M'gann, both stretched out on the floor in front of the TV, discussing something in hushed voices interspersed with a lot of grins and giggles that should make any sane man fear for his safety. But since none of us are sane, no one else is even paying them attention.

We're missing a few people, but not everybody gets holidays free like some of us do. Not everybody has no real family to go home to, or is an alien and doesn't understand our 'human traditions'.

Naturally Dick, Tim, and I will all stop by the manor for Christmas dinner and some kind of gift exchange — Alfred giving us thoughtful stuff and Bruce handing us 'get whatever you want' certificates — but until that night we're all free, and this team is the closest thing we've got to a home outside of the manor. It's neutral ground too, which is way more important. The manor is Alfred and Bruce's territory (really Alfred's), but if this base is anyone's it's Dick's.

Dick's entrance is pretty uncharacteristically loud, his hand slamming into the doorframe as he sweeps in. I have to bite down into the jacket over my arm to restrain the laughter, trying not to move and make the vent rattle. Right now Dick finding me would be pretty seriously painful, or at least a hell of a chase.

"N?" Wally asks with a bit of wariness — which is a kinda surprisingly wise reaction to a pissed off Nightingale — a flash of speed taking him close to Dick but not within arm's reach.

"Where the fuck is Red Hood?" Dick snarls, low and _dangerous_, but the effect is totally ruined when he turns his head and _jingles_ cheerfully.

Wally's head tilts a bit, as the rest of the team starts really paying attention. Kon, in particular, straightens and turns all the way around. "N...?" our speedster says, staring.

"What?" Dick snaps, and I can see the grin fighting at the edges of Wally's lips.

"You've got _bells_ in your hair," Wally points out, losing the fight and letting one corner of his mouth tilt upward. "And on your suit."

I can see Dick's hands clench — and have to bite down a little harder not to give away my position laughing as the bells sewn in around his wrists chime with the movement — and see the tension in his neck as he turns fully on Wally, his teeth baring in a real clear threat.

"I _noticed_," he spits through the gritted teeth. "Where. Is. _Jason?_"

I bless our teammates — self-serving, opportunistic _bastards_ that they are — as the only answer my murderous older 'brother' gets is M'gann remarking, with just a little bit of puzzlement but _way_ more amusement, "They are rather in spirit with your holiday, aren't they?"

Kori makes a noise of agreement, not even trying to hide the wide grin that takes over her mouth. "Indeed, and rather entertaining." Oh yes, and Kori with the 'what everyone's thinking but no one had the suicidal desire to say' moment. Kon smirks but then immediately is a study of blankness when Dick's head snaps around. He's learning from Tim, I swear.

"Alright," Roy announces, dropping the arrow in his hands and pushing off the arm of the couch near his feet to prop his back higher against the other arm of it, "what am I missing?" He cranes his head backwards, to see around the edge of the couch, and promptly bursts out laughing.

I grin wider, around the leather that is the _only_ thing keeping me from laughing just as hard as Roy, admiring my work. It was a hell of a lot of effort, but the bells sewn into Dick's Nightingale costume, and threaded and _knotted_ into his hair, were a fucking _genius_ idea. They're around each of his wrists, and sewn in at strategic locations on the rest of his suit. At his hips, his shoulder blades, his ankles, and around the edge of the blue symbol stretching across his chest. So he chimes with every movement even though he's a stealth expert, and it's _just _as great as I pictured it being. The 'thread' is heavy duty cable wires too, pilfered from Bruce's collection and melted together at the ends, so he can't just cut them off or untie them.

And they're in lovely, clashing, shades of green and red. Since it's Christmas.

Dick turns on Wally again, snarl turning to a really, _really_ dangerous smile. "_Lightning_," he starts, in a nearly sickeningly smooth purr that really just sounds like he's about to gut someone with his bare hands, "tell me where Jason is, _please_." It's a demand, not a request.

Wally gives a nervous laugh and backs up a step, blurring a little bit in an obviously shut down instinct to be _somewhere else_. "Yeah, I don't know where he is, N. Haven't seen him since last night, swear."

Yeah, I was careful about that. I was hiding _hours _before any of the rest of the team was up, just in case. They would sell me out in a heartbeat if Dick promised them enough, probably.

… Maybe.

It is pretty damn funny, which might stop at least some of them from doing what Dick wants just so they can see him running around in those bells for a while longer. Or see him try and get them out, which will be _hilarious_. Kon knows where I am — the son of a bitch can definitely hear my breathing, if not the beat of my heart — and so does M'gann — psychic _bitch_, but she's damn useful and not so bad — and of course Tim knows. Tim's hacked into just about every security system there is, and we've got motion detectors, heat sensors, and a dozen other security measures in every single inch of this place. With the kind of people we deal with, it pays to be prepared.

Then again, I'm also pretty damn sure that Tim has all of our family tagged somehow, so he knows where we are at all times. So even without our base's security systems, somehow he'd know. It's the only thing that explains some of the places he's tracked me down in.

Dick lets Wally go from his look, turning on one heel, slowly — maybe to be intimidating, maybe to stop the bells from making any noise — to face the two couches. Roy, because he has _no _survival sense when it comes to anything but an actual battle, is still laughing. Eyes closed, head tilted back on the arm of the couch, throat bared and nearly _begging _for someone to take something sharp to it. Dick looks like he wants to, but he only adds a hint of teeth to his smile.

"Arsenal," he says sweetly, and Roy flops over onto his stomach to look at him, arms a cushion beneath his chin and a wide grin on his face. He's still shaking a little bit with suppressed laughter, and the occasional snicker is still slipping through his lips, but he's not openly laughing, and at least his throat isn't bared at this angle even if he is pretty much helpless with his arms there. Whatever, _his _choice.

"Yes, Nightingale?" Roy asks, eyes hidden under his mask just like Dick's are, but you've _never _needed to see Roy's eyes to be able to read him. Although his eyes _are _quite a pretty shade of green.

Dick takes one stalking step towards Roy, which should be threatening except that the bells are tinkling away and Roy just gives a snort of laughter. "_You _always know where Jason is," my older 'brother' says with that snarling smile, and one of Roy's eyebrows arches high as he gives a second snort.

"Sure, when he's _not _hiding." He flips back over, reaching back down for his arrows and picking one back up to twirl between his fingers. "Sorry, N," he says easily, not sounding even a _little _bit like it, "I've got no clue."

When Dick looks over Kon immediately shifts backwards, glancing down at Tim — ignoring everything and still on his laptop — before shaking his head, not even waiting for Dick to ask. "I am _so _not getting in the middle of an Owl-family fight," he says bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the edge of the couch.

I grin, letting go of the leather between my teeth to give the faintest whispering breath. "_Thanks, Kon._" He doesn't react, but I know he heard me. I'll do something for him later, some favor to let him know I appreciate him not giving up where I am.

M'gann and Kori share a look, and then M'gann turns that one 'you should be running' smile on Dick. I swear, the two of them could have a legitimate competition for scariest smile, if anyone was brave enough to actually judge it. But then the judge would get skinned alive or turned into a vegetable, depending on the loser, so it's not like anyone would ever volunteer for that kind of position. For now they just have little mini competitions between each other to see who can get someone to do what they want the fastest, I honestly don't know who the winner usually is. I've avoided it for the sake of what little sanity I've got left.

"I know where he went to hide," M'gann says, "but I won't be telling you. The bells are a nice change, Nightingale; now the rest of us can track _you_."

"They amuse me," Kori agrees, with a shark's grin, "and I wish to know how long it will take you to remove them." Her and M'gann trade another glance, and Kori's grin gets a touch wider, glowing green eyes narrowing. "Jason is giving me _ideas_ about collaring you like one of your human pets, 'Gale. A bell would be a good _permanent _touch, wouldn't it?"

M'gann makes a rather vicious noise of agreement, and Dick's mouth is all teeth and a bright smile that screams danger and _violence_. Terrifying as _fuck _to someone a little less used to it, and _so _not enough to get me over the thought of Dick in a damn collar with a bell at the front. Holy _shit _that needs to be my next prank, or I need to make a deal with someone else to make that happen. I mean, just… Wow.

_"You owe me," _hisses M'gann's voice in the back of my head, muffled by my automatic mental shields but still loud enough for me to hear, and I shove a thought back at her. Communication with a psychic isn't so bad, once you get used to it.

_"Yep. Later."_

"_Try _it," Dick challenges Kori, "and I'll tear your throat out with my _teeth_." His voice is smooth and bright, one of his nastiest tones if you know what to listen for, and _almost _enough to kill all thought of doing that to him. _Almost_. "T," Dick snaps sharply, looking over at our younger brother, "what do you want?"

"Ten favors," Tim answers without looking up, "no limits except preestablished rules."

"Four," my older brother counters.

"Deal."

Oh _fuck_.

Tim clears his throat, cracking his knuckles and glancing briefly back in the direction of Dick, Wally, and me too, if you know where to look. "I'm going to set the filtration in the vents on fire," he announces, turning back to his computer, and I suck in a sharp breath. "In ten. Nine." No, he wouldn't, right? "Eight. Seven. Six." He _so _would. _Fuck_. "Five."

I shove my way forward, ignoring the way Dick's head whips up in the direction of the vent, and open the grating with a shove as I let myself fall through it. It's not graceful at _all_ — Tim's not joking and I like not being on _fire _— and I land heavily on my back on the counter of the butcher's block in the center of the kitchen, the marble driving the breath out of me for a second. The symbolism does _not _escape me.

"There," Tim says easily, as I drag myself up to the sight of everyone staring at me, including Dick.

I give a small, only _kinda _nervous laugh as he takes a step towards me. "_Hi_, N," I say, with a small grin that's totally for show.

Dick's smile is _vicious_, and this was _so _worth it but oh this is going to _hurt_. "_Jason_," he says, head tilting. "This was a _bad _idea."

"Probably," I admit, getting my feet under me and my breath back, trying to ignore everyone else because really, only _Dick _matters right now. "But you know, N." I brace myself, ready to run the _second _I get my last shot out because Dick is going to beat me black and blue to match his suit if he catches me. "I thought you deserved them, since every time a bell rings an angel gets their wings." I wink, with a slightly wider grin because _fuck_, I haven't got any kind of survival sense when it comes to Dick either. "Still waiting for yours, darling."

I roll off the counter and _bolt_ as he lunges, laughing even as one of his knives grazes past my side, embedding itself in the doorframe as I slip past. Because I can hear him _ringing _behind me with every step, and that makes this _so _worth it.

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><p>So I hope you all enjoyed. XD This entire series will be in the same universe (the happy-go-lucky one I am creating where the Owl-family is all together and not trying to murder one another), but there is absolutely no chronological sense to it. I'll try and tell you where each one fits in as I post them, but just know that this is probably going to be farther down the line than just about anything. This is the happy ending that Jason ends up in, eventually. (Well, <em>mostly <em>happy.)

Also, this is a terrible mashup of like, Teen Titans, and Young Justice, and RHatO, and I make no apologies for it. I wanted all my favorite characters together as a sorta team, as mostly adults, so they are. Deal. XD

See you tomorrow~!


	2. Trading Gifts

So the amazing person who gave me the prompt list for this (*points to the first chapter, at the dedication*) was watching the very beginning of B:TAS, Batman: The Animated Series, when she started putting it together. We all remember that very first episode, right? With the Joker breaking out of Arkham on a Christmas Tree Rocket?

I present chapter 2, based off the prompt '**Dick/Jokester/Jason, Christmas Tree Rocket'**.

This is a really obvious, established, Dick/Jason 'relationship', and I admit this turned out less silly and more dark than I was expecting it to. Though, that's not to say it isn't silly. XD Enjoy!

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><p>I should really just stop expecting any of my attacks to hit Dick. Ever. I should just assume that they're all going to miss and start planning for that, put together some kind of other strategy. I don't know how the hell I would plan how to beat somebody by <em>not <em>hitting them, but I should probably give it at least a little bit of consideration because this whole, 'miss him with everything until he cracks me in the head with enough force to stun me' thing is really just not working. At _all_. Never has and you'd think I would have learned that by now.

But instead it's these little moments, these fucking once in a blue moon events, that convince me to keep going with the stupid way of doing things. Because there is almost _nothing _more satisfying than watching my fist — and the steel sewn into the sap gloves, laid over my knuckles — crash into Dick's jaw and send him reeling. Maybe I don't hit him that often, but when I do it's _hard_. Every time it happens it convinces me that this kind of a fight is totally worth it.

His head snaps to the side, taking the hit with _all _my weight and power behind it, and his grip on my other wrist lets go. I take the advantage without hesitation, stepping in to get my footing and following my momentum to spin and slam my foot into his gut. He folds, the breath leaving him in a rush of air and spit, and I backhand him across the face as I turn fully back around and my leg settles on the ground.

He crashes to his knees, one hand flying out to brace so he doesn't hit the ground, and I reach forward and grab him by the shoulder. I brace my feet on the ground and _wrench_, dragging him up and flinging him back against the wall of the rooftop's stairwell exit, on top of our own personal skyscraper. He gives a grunt of pain as he hits it and I'm just a step behind, pressing up against him and catching his wrists, pinning them down next to his hips and kneeing my way in between his legs to keep him there. It's not a really effective way to do it — Dick's still got teeth and his legs really aren't contained like this — and it would be better with his chest to it and not his back, but if I really wanted to pin him I would have trapped him on the ground, or I'd be holding a knife to his throat.

This isn't about pinning him.

He swallows, getting some air back and smirking up at me, chest drawing up in a rapid pattern that's probably pretty close to mine. I'll totally admit it, I'm a little out of breath. He's bleeding, and I follow the trickle of blood with my gaze as it swells from the cut on his left upper lip, where I punched him, and sinks into the seam of his mouth, the last bit of extra starting a slow slide down his chin. My gloves are _designed _to hurt, so he's also bleeding from a small slice high on his cheekbone on the same side, from the backhand. He doesn't look like he's even noticed, and I _know _he doesn't care.

He pulls just a little bit against my hold on his wrists, testing, and without even thinking about it I lean further into him and down. I press my lips to his, and he makes a pleased little sound and meets me, opening under the push of my tongue and not even biting down like I half expect him to. It tastes like copper, the metallic tang of Dick's blood dominating the rest of the tastes, and I know I'm getting his blood smeared on _my _lips and chin but I _so _don't care. Dick is always worth a little blood, his _or _mine. Usually it's mine.

I let go of his wrists, which might be dumb but I'm _reasonably _sure he's not going to do anything particularly nasty to me, and grip his hip with my right hand, my left sliding up to rest in the middle of his back and drag him closer to me. I can feel him grin against my mouth, and I take a sharp breath in expecting nails, or something really, _really _sharp against my skin — and I don't pull away, because I am a _fucking _moron — but he only reaches up and slips his gloved hands around the back of my neck, his right along my skin and his left tangling in my hair. Still dangerous, but less painful than I was expecting.

I give a low groan when his right leg picks up off the ground, bending and sliding up to my waist, hooking around my low back and using some of that _glorious _thigh strength to force me harder up against him. I've got my jacket, armored padding, thick pants, but I can still feel the heat of him through it, muscle hard and _perfect _in all the places where we line up right. The air is cold, but his suit is insulated to stand it and I… well, the heat of his body helps, and I'm weathering the rest.

I kiss him until I can't anymore, until my head spins and the cold steals into my lungs and demands I take a real breath, and then I reluctantly pull back just enough to take in a deep breath and steady myself again. He gives a low laugh, sounding about as breathless as I feel, and I jerk a little bit in surprise when I feel the wet, _hot _drag of his tongue against my jaw. He makes a pleased little sound, still holding me tight against him, and then presses a kind of shockingly gentle kiss to my lips.

"Merry Christmas, Jason," he says quietly, with a wicked smirk that I can feel more than see. "Like the gift?"

I blink, staring down at him and then tilting my head a bit as the _only _thing that he can be talking about occurs to me. "Did you _let _me hit you?" I ask, a little incredulously. It's not like the gift could be the fight, or the kiss, or the leg against my hip; those are all things we do anyways, all the time. Well, not all the time. But regularly, when I'm in Gotham or Bludhaven, or he ends up wherever the fuck I happen to be staying at the time.

"That first punch, yeah," he confirms, totally at ease leaning against the wall of the stairwell roof exit. "You capitalized nicely, good follow through. You're going to make me _proud _of you yet, little wing."

That's… He's…

I fold over, leaning my head into his shoulder as I laugh. Dick let me _hit _him as a gift, that's so _ridiculous _it verges on insane, but _damn _if it isn't also really, _really _thoughtful. What kind of fucked up family do I live in that my older 'brother's' Christmas gift to me was that I got to punch him, and that he's _proud _that I followed it up with a couple more blows he wasn't intending to give me? What does it say about _me _that this is one of the sweetest gifts I've gotten in years, and I'm actually feeling pretty genuinely touched?

I manage to raise my head, unable to help my grin, and mimic his gentle kiss. "Thank you, Dick, it's…" I snort, shaking my head and then leaning our foreheads together, sharing air between our mouths. "Thanks," I repeat.

"Well I've noticed how much you like it," he mocks, the hand on the back of my neck squeezing just a little bit. Just enough for me to really feel it, but not hard enough to hurt. "To keep my little wing happy? A few bruises aren't much to pay."

"I think that's about the closest thing to a confession I've ever heard out of you," I comment, and he gives a smile and a soft laugh.

"Well the holiday spirit makes me sappy, don't get used to it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," I answer, leaning in to kiss him again. Not with the passion of our first one, but somewhere in between that and the weirdly gentle ones we've been trading. I try and put something into it to tell him that I… To tell him that I really do appreciate it. I'd be willing to bet a whole lot that Dick has _never _just _let _someone else hit him before.

He nips at my lips, grazing his teeth across my tongue, and tugs a little bit at my hair. Enough to burn, to make me shudder with more than just cold and try and press harder up against him. As if there's any more room between us.

Dick jerks _violently _as a loud roar cuts into my ears, and I whip my head in the direction it came from as quickly as he does. The kiss and the press of his body gets forgotten as I try and figure out where the hell the noise came from, staring across the map of Gotham's skyscrapers and streets. Dick is tense against me, hands clenched hard onto my skin and into my hair but his body in that eerie stillness that all of us ex-Talons learned from Bruce. The _ready _stillness, because loud, unidentified noises are generally _bad_.

I watch in complete, utter, _disbelief _as what I swear to god is a _massive Christmas tree _flies across the sky in the distance, arcing with a trail of fire over quite a few buildings and with impressive speed. We happen to be at just the right angle to watch it come down right on top of Arkham, plowing through the gates and slamming into the front portion with what must be a deafening crash there, and what's still a pretty loud noise even from where we are.

"Please tell me I'm hallucinating," Dick says flatly.

"Did you see a giant Christmas tree rocket hit Arkham?" I ask, and my voice comes out nearly as flat. His head drops back against the wall behind him as he groans, letting go of my neck and hair. "_Fuck_," I spit, dropping my head down against his shoulder. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

I glance over at what I can see from here is starting to become flaming wreckage, gritting my teeth. That's… Yeah, that's bad. Arkham is kind of Bruce's nuclear waste dump for anything he can't kill, or doesn't quite want dead but is still _seriously _dangerous. Also, just a lot of people who know secrets they shouldn't or pissed Bruce off enough to get thrown in that hellhole and not just killed.

"Alright, I'm out," I announce, pulling my arms back and stepping away from Dick. "Good luck with your mess." There is no way in _hell _I'm sticking around for this kind of shit. There's a lot of people in there I'd like to not run into, so the rest of my family can handle this just fine.

"Jason, _wait_," Dick demands, one hand rising to scrub over his face as he looks over at Arkham. He gives a huff of breath, a second of clenched teeth, and admits, "Bruce is off-world."

Oh _fuck_. "You're joking," I nearly beg, and he shakes his head. "Come on, it's _Christmas_. Why the hell is he off the planet?"

"It's _always _quiet, and aliens don't celebrate our holidays, remember?" He's right, Christmas has always been quiet. Something about Gotham's heroes still having some kind of decency, and Bruce not looking to stir up trouble on one night where he's guaranteed some time to himself.

Except, apparently, when someone decides to crash a giant Christmas tree rocket into Arkham to stage a massive breakout, because that's the start of a _great _night.

I'd like to say that this catastrophe isn't my problem, but it _so _is. This is a call to arms for every damn person who works for Bruce, and even though _technically _that doesn't include me anymore, it really does. This is a mess on the Crime Syndicate scale, and as much as I'd like to think otherwise I know that this isn't something that Dick can handle with just Tim, and Damian, and whoever else happens to be close enough to help. He could call in some of his team, all the sidekicks — because if Bruce is off-world it's a damn good bet so is most of the rest of the Crime Syndicate — but honestly? There's no way they can handle Gotham's kind of hero, and that's kind of a point of pride for us. We _never _need help in Gotham.

They're probably busy anyway.

"Jason," Dick says, grudgingly and with a forced smile that bares his teeth, "whatever the _hell _you want when this is done, you can have it. Alright? Just stay and help. You _know _there's people in there that want _you _dead as much as us."

Yeah, there's _that _too. I haven't exactly been subtle since coming back, and thanks to the Jokester my identity really isn't a secret anymore. I'm easier to track down than a lot of other people, unless I'm _really _hiding. But that's…

I swallow, looking over at Arkham again and bracing my hands on my hips. "That _has _to be the Jokester," I say, and fuck it I'm _proud _that my voice only cracks a little bit. That's pretty damn good considering we're talking about the guy who beat me to death. I've seen him face to face since then just once, and I'd be pretty damn pleased to never see the son of a bitch again. That's a whole lot of unresolved business and a lot of fucked up memories I never want to think about again.

"I know." Dick's voice is quiet, and when I look back at him the smile is gone. "I _know_, Jason."

This will be a _disaster _without me, I know it. Even if it's just the four of us, without Bruce, this could still be… Suicidal isn't a word I've used to describe myself in a while, but there it is again. The four of us can't handle every inmate of Arkham, and even if the really nasty ones are still locked down and the guards are putting up a decent fight, that's still a lot of people to get through. But if I don't then Dick, Tim, and Damian still have to go without me, and the chances they'll all live through it are, well, _dismal_. Christ, family loyalty _sucks _sometimes.

"Fine," I agree, "but I'm not holding back." _Fuck _whatever reason Bruce had for keeping these people locked away, I'm not going to hesitate to put bullets in them or slit their damn throats.

"Wouldn't ask you to," Dick says with a flash of a smile. "Let's go; I'll get ahold of T, you call the team base and see if anyone's got some spare time on their hands. We could use some extra hands."

"Deal, see you there."

Dick's body is an arcing flash of blue and black as he runs and dives off the edge of our skyscraper, totally _fearless _of the drop, like all of us. I detour to grab my helmet — Dick hates it between us — from the corner of the roof I dropped it in and fit it over my head, before following him off the building.

This is going to be a hell of a fight, even if there's any of the team that isn't busy and can actually get to us in time. Normally I'd just call Wally, but he's got an actual family and that means Christmas is pretty much off limits barring an alien invasion or something. Then again, if Bruce is off-world than that means Quick probably is too, which might even mean that most of that speedster family is spread out to try and hold things down until the big shots get back. We might not be so incredibly fucked after all.

Still, we're going to come out of this beaten black and blue, I'm really sure of that. This is _not _going to be fun, and that's not even counting the _mess _I'm going to be after seeing the Jokester again.

"Merry Christmas, Dick," I mutter to myself, and call the team.

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><p>For anyone keeping track, this is pretty early in the line of my continuity. Things are at least partially mended between Jason and the rest of the Owl-family, but he does not yet consider himself to be part of them, or part of Dick's 'team' of super-villain sidekicks. It's also, as said, early enough that he's only run into the Jokester once since his death (I promise, that will be a story eventually, though probably not in here).<p>

And again, I'll see you tomorrow!


	3. Christmas Desserts

And on the third day of Christmas, my true muse gave to mmeeeeeee... '**Wally/Ice Cream, Anything**'.

This has established relationships of Dick/Jason (open) and Tim/Kon (sort of open), as well as Jason/Roy, and implications of future Jason/Tim. Also, Wally. Yes, that is a warning. XD This doesn't quite have sex, but it's not far off. Enjoy!

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><p>"Wally is pornographic and this is not my fault," should not be the first words out of my mouth. In fact, they probably shouldn't have <em>ever <em>had a reason to come out of my mouth, but _somehow _they did anyway. I don't know why I even dare _hoping _that there's at least one awkward string of words that can't get pried out of me given the right circumstances.

Tim raises one eyebrow in _perfect _mimicry of Alfred, and I resist the totally ingrained urge to cringe back.

"Not my fault," I repeat, and my little brother closes the door behind him and takes several measured steps closer to me, his head cocking a bit to the side in that way that Bruce does because _goddamnit _Tim learned all his behaviors from everyone in my life that can scare me.

It's _not fair_.

"What did you do?" he asks, in his cool mixture of Alfred's sarcastic monotone and Bruce's icy 'you've done something wrong' voice. I really don't appreciate him using that tone on me, and I raise my lip in a snarl and cross my arms, leaning back in the swivel chair in front of the control room's console. _Bruce _doesn't even get to use that tone on me anymore, and Tim sure as _hell _isn't Alfred.

"I _didn't_," I snap at him, "weren't you listening?"

His eyebrow flicks up again, and I clench my hands over my arms to stop myself from bowing to the instinct that says to just blurt the truth out. That look is Alfred's version of interrogation, and we're _all _slaves to that quiet disapproval and calling out of all of our shit. Fucking _Tim _is the only one who can mimic it, which is probably a good thing for the sanity of the world. I'm pretty damn sure that if anyone found a way to bottle or use that damn look like a weapon, there'd never be another interrogation ever again. The Alfred-Stare, trademark.

"Something not being 'your fault', and you not having _done _anything are two very separate claims, Jason," Tim points out, but he lets the eyebrow slip away. "Now why are you hiding in here?"

"I'm not _hiding_," I protest, and the little smile Tim gives is all _Dick_, all sharp teeth and 'don't bullshit me if you like your throat in one piece'. _Fuck_.

Alright, Tim might be the smallest of us, the 'weakest' if that's what you want to call it. He picked up a staff to supplement his combat skills — something that Dick, Damian, and I never needed — and worked twice as hard to be just as good at acrobatics as me, because the physical does _not _come naturally to him, but those poor _saps _who think that makes him less dangerous than us must be either drugged or stupid. Tim's the smartest of us, I'm pretty damn sure he's smarter than _Bruce_ in some ways, and he's ruthless even compared to the rest of our family. He picks apart combat styles in his spare time and pits gangs against each other for _fun_, he's ruined whole organizations because he was _bored_.

No, Tim doesn't have Dick's _insane _acrobatic talent, or my natural combat abilities, and yeah, either of us could probably kick his ass in a straight up fight — I _have_, a couple of times — but if that was all there was to him he would _never _have lived this long among us. Tim isn't like the rest of us, he _plans_, and he _studies_, and if you give him any time to learn you then he'll take you down _hard_. I honestly don't know if he could beat me now, and I'd rather not find out.

Also, it helps that he's got his own personal kryptonian at his command. The sex must be _fantastic_, because I can't think of any other reason Kon would stick around the manipulative little sociopath _bastard _that is Tim. Maybe I should figure out a way to tape them sometime. See what's actually going on there.

Tim glances briefly around the room, and then turns that damn _eyebrow _on me again. "This room is only accessible to Owls, soundproofed even against Kon, shielded against M'gann's telepathy, and has a live feed of every room in the base. You're hiding. Why?"

"Careful with that look," I snarl, "you're going to wear it out."

"As if," he counters, easily and with another of Dick's smiles. A slightly softer one this time, more teasing and less 'tear you apart with my teeth and my bare hands'. Tim knows Dick's smiles just about as well as I do, but he can imitate them and I… Christ, I'd never even try. I really don't want to be Dick, we're two very different kinds of scary and I'd like to keep it that way. It's probably sad that _I _pass as the 'good cop' of our whole damn family.

I huff out a breath that's nearly a sigh, tilting my head back towards the consoles and the screens above it. "Wally has ice cream," I state flatly, "it's bad. I might have bought it for him."

That's Alfred's disbelieving look, and Tim approaches the console as I swivel around to keep my eyes on him. I trust Tim not to stab me in the back, usually, but that doesn't mean I'm going to just let him be there if I can help it. I pretty much don't trust anybody to be at my back, without trying to follow them, but Dick and, well, _Alfred_. It's not anything against Tim, we settled our differences after that whole bit where I tried to kill him and everyone else, I just don't like people at my back. The memory of a crowbar hitting my skull is still a little too fresh. I'm pretty sure it's _always _going to be too fresh.

Tim pulls up the particular video feed — of the kitchen, because where the fuck else would Wally spend his free time? — with a lot more ease than I can, his practice at it showing as he manipulates the computer without looking or even really seeming to pay too much attention. The feed pops up onto the screen, dominating all the rest of the pictures as they minimize away, and I wince. Yeah, Wally's _just_ where he was when I excused myself from the kitchen to go off — alright, to _hide_ — and stick myself in a distant corner somewhere.

He's sprawled out on top of the kitchen counter, the one that's nearly in the middle of the room and about seven feet away from the couch that starts the 'official' living room area of the joint common room, and the carton of ice cream next to him is only about a quarter empty. Granted, it's a _big_ carton, but that's not the point. He's on his back, one leg drawn up and the other hanging over the edge of the marble, domino mask on but otherwise out of his tights and only in a white tank-top and black shorts that I _know_ you can see straight up to his crotch and to his really, _really_ red briefs. I spent about five minutes just staring at them, while I was in the room. Thank _god_ you can't see them from this camera's angle. I don't know if I could handle that right now.

I mean, I'm with _Dick_, so I can _handle _ridiculous attraction and teasing with a pretty damn impressive — in my opinion — amount of restraint. But, _Jesus_, this just isn't fair.

He's eating the ice cream with his goddamn _hands_, scooping it out one tiny bit at a time and _licking_ it off his skin and his long, thin, speedster fingers. _Fuck_, if I didn't know that Wally was just about straight as an arrow — way more so than our _actual_ arrow wielder — I'd think he was doing this shit on purpose. But no, I'm pretty sure Wally is just that oblivious to how absurdly pornographic he looks right now, doing _that_. He's _sucking_ the last drops off his fingers, come _on_.

Tim tilts his head in that 'I'm curious and mildly bemused' move that's totally Bruce's, and I scrub a hand over my eyes and try not to look at the screen. At all. _Christ_.

"I prefer them thicker," he says after a few moments, straightening up from the slight bend, and without looking I fling my hand out to slap down on the unmute button.

Because Wally doesn't just _look _pornographic, he _sounds _it too. The fucking _moan _that filters into the room tightens me in places I was just starting to soften, and I draw in a breath through clenched teeth and _refuse _to look at the screen. No, no, _no_. I don't need any more thoughts about pretty much the _only _teammate I _can't _fuck, that's just not sane of me. I really don't need these kind of cravings in my head at all. I'm Wally's _friend_, if you want to call it that, and the man's an oblivious, naive idiot most of the time. Not when it comes to combat, or any of that, but about how much all our not-so-straight other teammates really want him. I mean, those _thighs_. Those really, really, _bare_ thighs right now.

"Oh," Tim says, quietly, and I carefully shield the screen from my range of vision with my hand as I look up at him.

I can't see his eyes past the domino mask he's got on, and the fall of his cape around his shoulders hides most of the rest of him, but I can see the very slight part of his lips and the tiny signs of tension in the one hand he has out on the console. He shifts, straightening up very deliberately, but doesn't look away from the screen.

"Do you think he's doing that on purpose?" Tim asks, pretty steadily, in tandem with another of Wally's blissful, goddamn _orgasmic_ moans.

"No," I answer, _way_ less steadily.

"Why did you buy him that?" is the next question, and I swallow.

"It's almost _Christmas_," I point out, defending my actions even though Tim's totally right and I should _never_ have done it. "It was just a gift, you know how much of a food whore he is." A sound that's nearly a _keen_, and I rethink my use of that word. I'm _never_ going to be able to call him that ever again without thinking of this moment, _damn_.

I can see Tim swallow, which is enough of a tell on my younger, blanker-than-Bruce brother that I rethink how absurd my reaction is. Alright, if _Tim_ is affected then I don't feel so bad about running off and hiding from the symbol of _sex _that Wally somehow turned into.

"The rest of the team?" he asks, still not looking away from the screen. "Are they still in there?"

"You could just pull up another screen," I gripe, but I really don't expect him to. How could you look _away_ from a show like that? It's— He's— _Fuck_. "Most of them were in there, I think they still are. Dick looked like he was ready to jump Wally _then_, I don't know what the hell he's like now."

"Kon?" There's something almost _possessive_ in Tim's voice, something very uniquely 'Tim' in a way that not much is, and I narrow my eyes just a little before I have to shut them at another of Wally's fucking _sounds_.

"Yeah, your boyfriend was there too. He was… frustrated looking." Aroused as all _fuck_, more like, but Tim will get it.

Tim is quiet for a few seconds, and then he spins on his heel and strides for the door. "I'm retrieving him," he says firmly, opening the door, and then glances over his shoulder at me. "Are you coming?" _Bad_ choice of words, but I catch his meaning. I need to ask — but not right now because I'm _so _not having this conversation while Wally is on the screen behind me — but assuming that Tim and Kon are together mostly for the sex, this is one hell of an opportunity. In my case, Dick's going to be about that aroused too, and _damn _if that isn't one hell of a reason to go grab him.

"Yes," I answer quickly, dragging myself out of the chair and really carefully still _not looking _at the screen. I'm going to have to brave the real life version anyway, why torture myself before that?

I manage to rush out of the room and only catch the tail end of another of Wally's moans as I all but slam the door shut behind us. I take a second to lean against the security door and just breathe, before I have to move out of the way of the sliding wall that hides our 'secret' control room. Private, more like, I doubt that it's actually secret to at least most of our team anymore. That doesn't mean any of the rest of them can get in.

Tim's cape billows out behind him as he stalks down the corridor, and I follow a little bit behind. I try and control myself, sinking into the breathing patterns that I've always been _shit _at to give some half-assed attempt to at least _calm down _my erection. Total failure of an attempt, but sometimes it's just the effort that counts, right? Yeah, totally.

I hurry up just a little bit to be at Tim's side instead of behind him — because damnit I am an _adult _and he isn't yet, and I'm so not going to follow him like that — and resist the urge to shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans because any more pressure against my cock is a _bad _thing right now. I settle for shoving them into my jacket instead, hands clenching into fists. It's a little bit of a walk, but I guess it's not like now is a really _bad _time to ask Tim why the hell he's with Kon.

I mean, I know _why_. Kon is kind of a powerhouse, and it's probably pretty damn useful to be able to snap your fingers and have a kryptonian — even a half-breed one — at your side to punch whatever you want punched. Clark might be seriously pissed off about it but Bruce is pretty absurdly smug, and either way I don't think Tim gives a damn. Clearly, whatever the hell Tim's intentions were at the start, at the least he considers Kon to be _his _now, and I _know _Tim just _doesn't _give up his possessions. Not for anyone.

But I don't know why the hell Kon is still with _him_. I mean, Tim's… Well, he's _Tim_. I honestly don't know why anyone would ever choose to be with the little shit, except for his looks or if they were as twisted and fucked up as my little brother is. Kon, for all his kind of thuggish ways, _isn't _that fucked up.

At the least, asking Tim will be a distraction from all the lingering thoughts of Wally. I'm curious, and damnit I swear to god I can _focus _on things I'm curious about.

"So why the hell are you with Kon anyway?" I ask bluntly, and Tim looks over at me and the damn _eyebrow _is raised again. Whatever, fuck him.

"I am not _with _Kon," he refutes, flatly, "he is _mine_. It's different."

"Sure, _whatever_," I say, nearly snorting and not controlling my grin. "Liar. So why do you keep him then, if you're not _his _or _together?_"

Tim studies me for a second, obvious to me even if I can't see his eyes actually doing it because I have been around my little brother _way _too long, then he tosses his head a little bit — copied _straight _from Dick, I _know _that head toss — and gives a tiny smirk.

"The strength is pleasant," he says, in a tone that's half Dick's purr and half Bruce's smug drawl, "and the things you can do with a flying partner are _interesting_." I nearly choke, and I swear he nearly _preens_. "I think you might be the only one in our family who doesn't _know _that, Red."

Well, so much for distracting myself from sex. Fuck, I can't even pretend that thought doesn't dry my mouth out about as efficiently as thoughts of Dick. Yeah, Kon's not my type at _all_ — too thick, not nearly lean enough — but Tim? It makes me feel like a bit of a bastard, but Tim is _hot _in nearly all the ways I really like. He's thin but all muscle, and _pretty_; even prettier than Dick but I'll never say that out loud because I like all of my bits still being attached. It's not like I've never interacted with Tim in a sexual way, but we've never fucked. I was dead when he became Talon, and by the time we settled our differences Dick had his claws pretty firmly hooked into me, and we hadn't really decided that we weren't exclusive. Well, Dick was _never _going to be exclusive, but I didn't know if he expected me to not touch anyone else while I was with him.

Then Kon happened.

A _flying _partner? What is that even _like? _I guess I could experiment with Kori, if I wasn't kind of afraid she'd burn me alive first, or _during_; or M'gann, if I didn't think she'd mentally _fuck _me over just for fun, but I like being in one piece and sane, so I guess that's out of the question. I guess Tim's never going to bargain Kon away to me for a night either, and it's not like that would work anyway. I'm pretty sure Kon's not much of a bottom, and I don't do that anymore. Haven't since I died. I'm damn well not doing it again with a kryptonian bastard I can't guarantee my control over.

As much as I hate to admit it, I'm not scary enough to keep either Kori or M'gann from hurting me during sex, if they felt like it. Dick probably is, but fuck it I'm the _nice _one of our family and everybody knows it. I'm the guy who actually played at being a hero for a bit, before Dick and Bruce reminded me who I was, _am_, underneath all that pretense.

I'm glad they did. I missed this.

"Pick your jaw off the ground, Red," Tim says, borrowing another tone from Bruce to help him sound really condescending, "shocked and clueless isn't a good look for you."

"Oh _fuck _you," I snap back, without thinking about it, and he flashes one of Dick's heated smirks at me.

"Only if you offer me something worth it, _Jason_," he counters smoothly, and god _damn _my entire family's ability to make me speechless. At least Damian hasn't picked up on that yet, and Bruce usually can't do it at will like Dick and Tim can. Really, just _damn _Dick and Tim for knowing me so well.

I give Tim a side glance, working my jaw and trying to pretend that the thought of fucking Tim — I've seen him naked, of _course_, I've seen all of my family naked at one point or another — doesn't quicken my pulse and kill any progress I'd made towards calming down my erection. As _if _Tim doesn't know _exactly _the effect his words have on me, he knows better than that. This is a game, it's just a messed up offer he never intends to have to cash in on.

"What do you want?" I ask anyway, because I'm an idiot and Tim is fucking _gorgeous_.

His smirk is Dick's _wicked_ one, the one that says he knows he's won, but you'll probably enjoy the defeat. I get that smirk aimed at me a _lot_. "I'm not _telling _you, Red. You'll have to _offer_ what you think it's worth. If it's enough, you'll have a deal, and if it's not, you'll just have to do better."

That's… Okay, I have to not think about this right now. I've got Wally to deal with, and Dick, and if I let Tim's offer distract me right now I'm going to make a mess out of all of it, the deal included. I can think about it later; it's not like this is going to vanish in the next hour or something. Dick, on the other hand, _might_, so clearly Dick is more important right now than the possibility of getting to fuck Tim.

Holy _shit _that image.

"Fine," I manage, "I'll think about it." Tim nods, smirk flashing bright for a moment before fading away, and I dedicate the rest of our fast walk to trying in _total _vain to not be quite this hard. I _so _didn't need all these thoughts of Wally, and Kon, and goddamn _Tim _in my head. I was doing just fine with _just_ Dick for fantasy material, didn't need all the rest of it too.

I hear Wally before I see him, and I can actually see Tim's stride falter just the _tiniest _bit at the sound. Nothing perceptible to _anybody _who hasn't worked with him in such close quarters for so long, and hasn't fought him a couple dozen times. Really, not to anybody who wasn't trained by Bruce. I pick up shit that no one else ever will, and it's a skill I'm pretty damn proud of. _Perception_.

He steps fearlessly into the room, head turning to survey the room as he walks. He switches directions flawlessly, and I follow the line of his movement to Kon, the kryptonian's blue eyes fixed on Wally as he nearly _drools_, half-supported by one of the couches. I slow just a little, scanning for Dick, as Tim leans into Kon, one clawed glove raking over the idiot's cheek hard enough to hurt anyone else — ah, there's the _other _reason Tim likes him — and speaking directly into his ear. It's too quiet for me to hear, but Tim's at enough of an angle that I can read his lips.

"_With me, now," _he says, lips curling in a snarl, and Kon follows completely obediently and without even a second of hesitation when Tim takes his wrist and heads back out of the room.

I drag my gaze away from them and find Dick — leaning against a wall with his arms crossed and one foot drawn up flat against the wall — pausing for just a second before I head for him. I come up next to him, not looking at Wally because _Christ_, the noises are enough and I don't know if I can look away again if I dare glancing at him. I lean against the wall next to Dick, and I can see the slightly rapid pattern to his breathing, the tension in his shoulders and his arms.

"_No_," he nearly snarls, when I reach for him, and I flinch back on pure automatic. Dick doesn't say no often, not to me, and when he does he's _serious_. He flashes me a nasty smirk, almost a sneer, and shifts off the wall to press up close to me — not _quite _touching — and speak into the breath of air between our mouths. "I'm in the mood to _fuck _something, little wing," he nearly purrs, and Tim's mimicry could never hold a _candle _to hearing it out of Dick. "So don't _touch _me unless you want to get _fucked_, darling."

I swallow, holding my breath and staying perfectly still until Dick draws back and settles himself against the wall again, mask training back in the direction of Wally's form. I take a step back, away from him, and drag my gaze away to look around the rest of the room.

A part of me, a _large _part, wants to take Dick up on that offer. I _remember _how good it feels to be on my back under someone else, how good it feels to get _fucked_, and a lot of me is just fine with letting that happen again. _Wants _it to. But the rest of me is the louder part, and I just _can't_…

My gaze lands on someone else, and without stopping to think about it I head for him. Roy's sitting back against the wall next to the TV, looking about as dazed and aroused as Kon was, and I sink down in front of him without any kind of subtlety. It takes him a second to really focus on me, and I quirk an eyebrow up and offer him my hand.

"Sex?" I ask bluntly, and he immediately takes my offer.

"God yes, please," he blurts, and I pull him to his feet, not releasing his hand as I all but drag him from the room. He might not be Dick, but Roy is damn pretty — his long hair is _great_ — and he's a lot less likely to kill or hurt me than my other options right now. Also, he's one of the few people that I'll get to actually see the eyes of, and sex is _always _just a little better when I can see my partner's eyes.

Roy knows who I am, since it's not like I hide that, and he knows that _I _know who he is, so the masks get to come off. He's got some really pretty green eyes, and he's a good fuck who prefers getting fucked to the actual fucking, which fits in nicely with what I want. It works out.

He's on me way before we get anywhere near the rooms, pushing me back against a wall and pressing hard and _desperate _up against me. "_Jason_," he nearly whimpers against my mouth, and I knock his _stupid _hat off his head and fist both hands in his long hair.

I swap our positions, _slamming _him back against the same wall and pinning him there with my weight. "I'm going to _fuck _you," I hiss against his lips, shoving one thigh between his legs and dragging him up against me as his curled hands _claw _at my jacket and my sides. I don't usually talk during sex — I don't get the option with Dick, _he's _the chatty one of the two of us — but Roy likes it and I like driving him mad, so I let my thoughts become words when I'm with him. Cheesy porn movie lines or not, it never fails to make him just that touch more passionate.

"_Please_," he begs, grinding forward against me, and I swallow back the serious arousal burning at the base of my spine. That's the _other _part about fucking Roy that I love. He doesn't just ask, or plead, he _begs_, and that's a damn rare thing among people like us. Most of us don't trust anyone else enough to be that obviously vulnerable, but I guess Roy is the exception.

"Until you can't _move _without feeling it," I bite back saying _Roy_, because we're still in hearing or psychic range and not _everyone _knows who he is. "I'm going to tease you until you _beg _me for more, beg me to take my cock and fuck you harder and deeper than anyone else can."

"Oh Jesus _fuck_," Roy nearly cries, one hand finding its way under my shirt and raking across what little exposed skin I've got. "I'm _already _begging, J, I'll say anything you damn well want if you just _fuck me now_."

I take in a shaky breath, lowering my head to dig my teeth into the side of his neck in restraint, to not do _exactly _what he wants me to. Then a thought occurs to me, and I let him go and grab his arm. "Come with me," I demand, dragging him down the corridors.

Our 'secret' control room is way closer than our rooms, and it's guarded against everything which means I can call Roy by his name and strip him down _just _how I want to. I think there might even be a blanket somewhere in there, since Tim tends to sleep at consoles all the time. Roy follows without comment or complaint — I can hear the fast pace of his breathing behind me, the unsteady pad of his footsteps — and I unlock the room and pull him inside as quickly as I possibly can. I shove the door shut and all but _attack _him, and he meets me just as passionately.

He drags my jacket off my shoulders as I rip the mask from his face and then drop my hands to his belt, tugging at it with practiced ease to get it the hell off of him _right now_. I let the jacket drop off and push him back into the chair, following as it rolls backwards and hits the console with a low thunk, Roy sprawled out in it and flushed with his green eyes half-lidded and hazy with arousal. I kneel over him, bracing one leg between his thighs as I wrap a hand around the back of his neck and kiss him _hard_, and he _moans_.

Or, wait…

Roy laughs against my mouth, one hand clenched in the front of my shirt, and I pull back just enough to glance up and see that yes, I _did _leave the fullscreen feed of Wally up on the console, sound included. _He _moaned, not Roy, and… I… Wow. Just wow.

"_Please _never buy Wally ice cream again," Roy says breathlessly, dragging my attention back with a hard pull to my shirt, "that was more than enough frustrated torture for the rest of my _year_, thanks."

I grin, leaning down the inch or so and kissing him again, and Wally makes another moaning sound that I can _feel _tighten Roy's hand, arch his back, shorten what little breath he still has. It's _hot_, I have to admit.

"I don't know," I tease, only half-joking. "If I get _this _kind of reaction out of it, I'm _so _doing it again."

"Oh just _fuck _me, Jaybird," Roy says in a weird mix of a whine and a snarl, and I grin.

"_Gladly_, Roy."

* * *

><p>Welcome to the end! So, I hope you liked my Tim. He was fantastically fun to write, and there's more of him coming in a couple of chapters. There's more JasonRoy coming up too. (Just more Jason in general, really.) I'm slowly settling into what each Owl-family version of the characters feels like to me, and this has actually been a great exercise for me to flesh them out in terms of how they interact with each other as well as precisely how they think and move around. It's pretty awesome. XD

In continuity, this comes in a bit before 'Holiday Spirit' (Bells), and a while after 'Trading Gifts' (Rocket Tree). In fact this is the next year of Christmas-ish (the week or so on either side) time after when Bells happens. Originally I thought it was the same year, but then Jason informed me he had a lot more character development to go through and needed soem more time before he was really going to be happy.

I shall return tomorrow!


	4. Seeing Red and Green

Welcome back! So on the fourth day of Christmas my true muse (Fox) gave to me, '**Jason, Christmas Memories**'.

I promptly asked her _why _she wanted me to write something so horribly depressing, to which I got the answer 'because it can't all be fun and games'. (It totally could, and Jason makes even his silly prompts depressing, but I guess that's not the point.) So, _this _happened. It may be hard, but please attempt enjoying or at least appreciating this.

This contains mentions of past Dick/Jason, past character death, unpleasant past in general, mild panic attacks (claustrophobia), suicidal thoughts, planned murder, and the bundle of angst and rage that is Jason Todd at his lowest moments. Yeah, it's a bundle of laughs.

* * *

><p>Looking at the news headlines, the pictures, is a torture in and of itself. It almost feels like if I just stare long enough, <em>hard <em>enough, that I could sink right through and become part of them. Slot myself in right where I belong, standing next to the two members of my family and in the place of that little _shit _at Bruce's side, in _my _place.

'_Wayne family celebrates Christmas Eve with a Gala; pictured below (left to right) Bruce Wayne, Richard Grayson, and Timothy Drake.'_

Drake. _Timothy_. Who the fuck does this little bastard think he is? Who the hell does _Bruce _think he is? That's _my _spot, the damn article should read 'Jason Wayne' in the third spot, not this replacement boy and his smooth, blank face and copied little smile. Yeah, I know that smile. It's identical to Bruce's, the little fucker is copying him inch by inch and I _hate _it. I was there first, I _died _for it, for fuck's sake, and Bruce just _replaces _me like that? With this little shit?

I slam the laptop closed and shove back in the chair, letting it lean dangerously back on two legs for a moment before twisting and settling it back down so I'm not pointed directly at the hunk of metal that seems happy to destroy everything I thought I knew about my family. Fuck, I mean I _knew _Bruce wasn't really going to mourn me. He cares, in his own twisted little way, but I always knew I was more of a tool to him than I was family. Only Dick ever really carried the honor of being part of Bruce's _family_. But I didn't think he'd pick up the first random kid he ran across — and yeah, I've done my research on _Timothy Drake_, son of the next door neighbors to Wayne manor until all of his family died off — and shove him into the role of Talon. I thought I was worth a little more than _that_.

We're criminals, we're the villains of the story and damnit I _know _that, so it's not like dying is really much of a warning. We die, sometimes that happens, and it's usually avenged pretty quickly — blood for blood and all that — but it's not something to make a big fuss over. Shit happens, but I expected _something_. At the damn _least _I expected what everyone else gets.

It feels like Bruce is spitting in my face, like this is the final backhand when I'm already down and bleeding and he just wants to _hurt _me a little more. Insult on top of injury because what do _I_ get to come back to?

'_Jokester set for life sentence in Arkham' _and '_Wayne family adopts new son_'.

It's goddamn _bullshit_.

My murderer is sitting in a cell, not _bleeding in a gutter _where he should be, not floating belly up in Gotham bay or in a _fucking _morgue, and there's someone new in my role. It's like I never died, like I never even _existed_, and fuck that hurts a lot more than I thought was even possible. I didn't think anyone could ever make me feel this sick, _aching _twist of my stomach again. Not after my parents died, not after I spent years on Gotham's streets and learned exactly how to survive, how to _stay alive_, and that staying alive meant not caring for anyone who might be used against you.

Bruce and Dick were fine, and it was hard but I could care for them because they were _dangerous_ and _deadly _and if anything I was the weakness to _them_. I didn't think _they'd _be the ones to hurt me, not in a million years. I thought I knew exactly what Bruce and Dick were capable of, and how much they did or didn't care about me. Didn't, mostly, but I was _useful _and I knew better than to flat out disobey Bruce, so why the hell would he ever hurt me?

I wonder if that little _bastard _thinks the same thing. I wonder, if _he _died, would Bruce even pause? Would he _stop _for even just a second? Or would he just go on, shove another kid in the bloody gauntlets of Talon, and move on?

Or is it just _me _that didn't matter?

I want to _know_. I want to cross over the ocean, put a knife in the kid's _fucking _chest and see what dear old _Dad _does. Maybe while I'm there I'll ask the son of a bitch why the hell I'm not worth avenging, why I'm not even worth him killing the bane of his goddamn existence in revenge. Bruce wants the Jokester dead _anyway_, so why the _fuck _is he in Arkham and not bleeding and _broken?_ Why the hell didn't Bruce take him apart over a day, or a week, or a goddamn _month_ for what he did to me? Or just for being a _hero? _God, why didn't _Dick?_

Dick… I thought he actually cared for me. Maybe in his own sick, sadistic, _fucked up _way, but I was pretty damn sure that I meant something to my older 'brother'. The first Talon, the one who graduated to become Nightingale and moved off to his own city next door, Bludhaven. Not that he didn't still spend most of his time in Gotham with Bruce and me.

God, I _miss _Dick. Not just because of the sex — but that sex was _fantastic _— but because Dick… For the first time in years, since my _Mom _died, I felt like someone actually gave a damn about how I ended up. Like if I just up and vanished one day that he'd actually look for me, that he'd _care_.

What a big fat _lie _I told myself. Coward, _idiot_. Like anyone could ever care for a fucking Gotham street rat like me. As _if_.

You'd think being on Gotham's streets would have taught me better than that. Too old to live off pity, and too young to join a gang as anything but a toy or a drug mule. I _never_ sunk that low. I lived how I could, how I _had _to, and I took my damn beatings when I got caught at it. No one ever gave a damn about me until in that moment of insane, suicidal, 'I've given up on everything' stupidity, I stole the tires off the Owlmobile. I know now it was in the middle of an upgrade, and a flaw in the design was the _only _reason I ever got that far. Then Bruce had me up against the wall by the throat, and I was so _done _with all of it that I spat in his face and _snarled_, and he _beat _me for that.

When he showed up again four days later — to my sad little squatting home on the edge of Crime Alley, only _mine _because I took a knife to the last owner's face and left him with some nasty scars — I thought I was hallucinating. I was bruised, and still bloody, and I could barely _walk, _and on top of it all one of the gouges in my leg — from his claws — had gotten infected and I was running a decent fever. Honestly, I probably would have died if he hadn't come back for me. But he knelt down next to me, took my jaw in his hand, and invited me to join him. Said he was _impressed_, that I was _interesting_.

"_It won't be easy, I will be __**harsh**__, but I can turn you into someone that no one will ever dare to hurt again. You can be my Talon, Jason Todd."_

To a Gotham street rat on his last legs, it sounded like a damn good deal.

A home to sleep in, free food, and the promise that if I just toughed it out — like I wasn't doing _that _already — that he'd make me dangerous enough that no one would ever try and fuck with me again. To a Gotham kid? That sounded like fucking _paradise_.

It nearly _was_.

I didn't even mind the killing; hurting people and being in control of them felt _good_. I was always going to be playing second fiddle to Dick, but I stopped caring about that after a bit. Who can really stay mad at Dick? He pushed me just as hard as Bruce did, in a different way, but the biggest way he drove me to be more, made me _better,_ was just by being there. Being the laughing, _perfect _arc of movement in the shadows, a knife in each hand and coated with the blood of someone else. _Thrilled _at it. It made me fight and work to be just as good as him, to try and live up to the feel of his smile at my back and the touch of his hand to my shoulder.

When I went to him I didn't even know what I wanted, but _he _did. I just knew that I _wanted_. I wanted to be near something that perfect, something that _incredible_. I wanted to take a piece of him for myself to hoard, to hide away, because I could _never _shut away that part of me that was a street rat at heart, and knew that _someday_, everything I didn't cling to with every fiber of my being would be taken from me. I wanted to carve a piece of that impossible laughing shadow away from Dick and keep it to myself. I wanted it to be _mine_.

He pushed me up against his wall, every inch of him warm, and I didn't fight him. When he took my first kiss, my first touch, my first _fuck_, I let him and I asked for more. I reached out to what I could grab and I _clung_, and I tried to hold onto him, not that you can hold a shadow. He wasn't mine, he was _never _mine, but I was _his_ and that was close enough. So long as he came back, so long as he touched me and let me pretend that I could ever really claim him as my own, it was enough.

_Christ_, it was enough.

I tilt my head back, dragging both hands through my hair and clenching tight, tugging hard enough to _hurt_. I shove away from the chair, spinning on my heels as I stand and just _moving _because I can't keep still, flinging a punch into empty air and _hating _the lack of an impact, the lack of _flesh _under my hands. Anger and _pain _burns through my chest, shrieks in the back of my mind like the screams of someone being tortured, and I clench my teeth together and drag in a breath that feels like it pulls acid down my throat.

My muscles are locked tight in all the ways I was trained to _not do_, and when there's a knock on the door it's hard to force them loose enough to cross the room to it. I pause with my hand on the doorknob, swallowing down anger and _forcing _it back, forcing it away so I can do my job. Not that this is a job anymore, not that I've had a damn _purpose _for my life since I died. I'm running on empty, on _anger_, letting Ra's and Talia try and mold me into whatever the hell they think they can make of me. They're fucking _idiots _if they think they can change me.

I close my eyes for a second, physically swallowing to _shove _the feelings deep enough down to manage, because even if I'm just Jason now — even if I don't have a name or a title or a _reason _to live — I was still trained by Bruce. _No one _gets to see underneath my shields, especially not a damn _hero_.

I open the door, palming the makeshift knife — just a bit of spare metal I filed down, they don't quite trust me with real knives yet — from inside the pocket of my jeans and pressing that hand flat against the frame of the door as I stand in the slice of open space. I'm bigger than I was — taller than Dick, I realized recently — and I can actually block a decent amount of space with just my body now, it's kind of refreshing to be bigger than most people instead of the other way around.

I flick my gaze up and down Talia, standing at my door and studying me just like I'm studying her. It's at least something that we're both obvious about it. She tilts her head a little bit, hands at her hips, and speaks first.

"Father and I are having a Christmas dinner with a collection of our other associates," other _heroes, _she means. "Would you like to join us, Jason?"

An invitation to a party, how about _that? _As if I'd ever even _think _about taking her up on it. Sure, I'm curious what other heroes are here, and what the hell heroes talk about in their spare time, but not enough that I'd ever put myself through a night _among _them. I'm really damn sure I don't want to sit in the middle of a bunch of heroes to get judged and looked down at for the night, to get whispered about behind my fucking back every time I turn around. Yeah, that sounds like a _great _time.

"No thanks," I say, with a curl of my lips into a sneer.

She sighs, looking vaguely disappointed in me but still with that regal air that just irritates the _fuck _out of me. She's not _better_, and I hate that she behaves like she _is_. "You don't have to remain an outsider, you are allowed to move on, Jason."

No, I'm _not_. That's what she'll never _get_, what their whole damn group will _never _understand. There is no 'moving on' from being Talon, there _never was_. I was going to wear that title like a brand for the rest of my _life_, and I knew that when I took Bruce's offer. There _is _no backing out, there's no moving on, there's no _changing_. Sure, Dick became Nightingale, but everyone still thinks of him as Bruce's, as the-man-who-was-_Talon_. It doesn't matter if I try and be anything else — as if I want to try and change myself for these naive _saps _— I will _always _have Bruce's shadow hovering over me, I will _always _have that name burnt into my soul.

"I'm not _one _of you," I nearly spit at her, smoothing out instead of tensing because that's how I was taught, "and I don't _want _to be. I'm not a damn _hero_, Talia, and I'm not your pet _criminal_ that you get to take out and parade around your _friends_. Fuck off and _leave me alone_."

Her lips thin out for just a second, before she speaks as though I _didn't _just tell her to get the hell out of my face and away from me. "Are you alright, Jason?" she asks quietly. "I am aware the effects of the pit can be hard to handle and—"

"I'm _fine_," I snap, not letting her finish the fucking _accusation_ because this is _not _about the damn Lazarus pit. The thing was _hell_, and it _hurt_, but that's done, it's _over_. This fucked up bit? It's just me. "I'm just sick of you offering shit you're never going to give me." Kindness, _family_, a place that _feels _like home and isn't just called that. Somewhere I can turn my back and not expect a knife in it. She _can't_, and even if she could I damn well don't want it from someone like _her_ and her damn _father_.

I resist the urge to slam the door in her face — the last time I did that she broke it down to make me listen, and I spent two days without a door and _didn't sleep _— as her eyes narrow, hands leaving her hips to hang by her sides. She's gone from looking disappointed to irritated, and I shift my grip on the knife.

"I don't offer _anything _I'm not prepared to give, _Jason_," she snaps back, the tiniest flicker of a sneer not that different from mine lifting her lip. "When you are done _running _from the memory of the monster you called _master_, the door is open."

Before I can answer, before I can even gather my thoughts past the verbal sucker punch, she's sweeping away, and I'm not left with a _damn _option but to close the door and let her go. I lean against it, letting the knife drop from my hand and turning to lean back against the wood instead of into it. My breath comes sharp and fast, and I can't tell if it's anger, or fear, or pain, or some hellish mix of the three that's causing it. I'm _not_ afraid, I can't be, and _damn_ Talia I never thought of Bruce that way. If _anything_ that was Dick, not that she specified, I guess.

My shirt drags and clumps behind me as I sink to the floor, my hands rising to rake through my hair as I settle on the ground and lower my head between my knees.

Why would I be afraid of the two of them anyway? I trained with Bruce and Dick, I _know_ them — '_not that well, apparently_,' a voice hisses in the back of my mind — and they wouldn't hurt me without a reason, without a _good_ reason. There were stray moments during my training and my time as Talon, moments where I realized that they were capable of more than I thought, or when I wondered what would happen if they turned their skills on me, but real fear?

Of _course_ I was afraid of Dick when he was Talon, before I'd ever met either of them. That's the _point_ of Talon, he's _supposed_ to be that name held over people's heads that makes them cringe and sink back into compliance. _Obey_, or the Owl will send Talon to _make_ you. And yeah, while I was on the streets the thought of Owlman always tightened up my throat and made me paranoid and itchy, wary of every shadow because there's _no_ protection — no matter how useless — in Crime Alley. But that wasn't really fear, and the last time I ever remember being actually afraid of either of them was only weeks into my training.

It was the first time Dick showed up, ambushed and beat the crap out of me, and I was lying in my own blood, torn apart by someone I had _no_ hope of ever even touching, and I was totally convinced that he was going to kill me for not being _worthy_ of his spot. So I glared at him and _snarled_ with what little voice I had left, because apparently I've got no kind of survival instinct when it comes to other Owls, and he laughed, gloves soaked through with my own blood tracing over my cheek. He _smiled_, and welcomed me to the family. It wasn't any different than what Bruce did to me; Dick was just _testing_.

After that, I can't remember ever being really afraid of them again. Yeah, being an Owl hurt sometimes, and both Bruce and Dick could be mean _bastards_ when it suited them, but at the end of the day I was one of them. They were never going to kill me unless I legitimately fucked up and _made_ them, and even if they hurt me it would be for a good reason, because I deserved it or because they didn't have another choice. I knew that, so what did I have to be afraid of?

I might be pissed at them, I might _hate_ them for forgetting about me just like that, and it might _ache_, but I'm not afraid of them. I'm _not_.

They don't even know I'm alive.

My breathing kicks up another notch as I tilt my head back, pressing it against the door. I squeeze my eyes shut to block the world out, to try and get some kind of control, and for a second I'm safe in the black before _laughter_ echoes in the back of my mind. I snap my eyes back open with a strained gasp, my hands clenching into fists, but the laughter stays. That psychotic, howling, _cackle_ that haunts all my dreams and every quiet moment. Bright, crystal-green eyes that nearly _glow_ in my memories, and a grin that's wider than a human should be capable of. White teeth and white skin, cut apart by lips the same color as the blood speckled on his cheeks and his damn _hands_.

I never snarled at the Jokester.

I spat my own blood on his cheek — he broke my nose against the floor for that — and I snapped curses and threats at him until my broken ribs were too painful to speak through, but I never snarled at him in the same way I did at both members of my family. I knew I was going to die, I could _feel_ it in the wet drag of breath and see it in the flash of his broken, _furious_ eyes, so I didn't bother trying to pretend that he didn't have me. It was my bad luck and my _stupid_ mistake for getting caught in the first place.

I was at his mercy, and by that point he'd spent it all on a hundred fights that I wasn't lucky enough to be a part of. That night was when he ran out, and I made myself an easy target for his new viciousness. Not as strong as Bruce, not as hard to touch as Dick, and not nearly well trained enough to stop him by myself.

When he was _done _with me, when he left me to die in that warehouse, all I could do was stare at the countdown. Barely breathing past my own blood, unable to move even with my high tolerance of pain, the only thing left to me was to stare at that collection of explosives and watch the numbers count down towards my death. Sure, some part of me wanted the sudden interruption of a boot kicking down the locked door or an explosion blasting through a wall. I wanted Bruce or Dick to rush in and drag me out before the bomb ever hit zero, but I knew they wouldn't get there in time. Somewhere in me I _knew _it.

So I watched the red numbers tick down, in complete silence apart from the bubbling _rasp _of my own breathing, and by the time there were only seconds left I was as close to true peace as I've ever felt. There's not much to do when you're watching your own death come at you but think, I guess, I _know_. I accepted that I was going to die, and that was that.

Until I was _alive _again, coming back with the feeling of _acid _coursing through my veins and burning in my lungs, _dragging _me back to an existence I didn't want. When I woke up in the goddamn _pit_, with the memory of clawing my way out of my own damn grave. Suffocating, _dying_, with earth in my mouth and only the desperate knowledge that I was underground, that I'd been _buried_. I remember it, like I remember living half-dead on the streets of Gotham until Talia found me, but I know damn well I didn't actually do those things. That wasn't me, I wasn't _in _there, it was just my body moving on the instinct of survival. But I _remember _it.

My next breath comes too short to be comfortable, and I draw in a forcibly larger one that nearly _hurts_. The walls feel too close, drawing in and I can _recognize _it as my fun new claustrophobia but that doesn't make it any easier to handle. I nearly bolt to my feet, moving to the window across the room and shoving it open, swinging out of it in a slide of motion that feels _too_ familiar. I move on automatic, climbing up the decorative ridges of the manor — two stories up — until I reach the roof. I raise my head to the sky, curling my arms around my knees, and just _breathe_.

The sky is dark, must be cloudy because there's no moon or stars, but it's the _sky_ and that's enough to calm me down. It's _cold_, the middle of winter and I'm an _idiot _for being up here but I can't help it. This is the nearest place I can go when the panic attacks hit, when everything feels too loud and too _close_, and I just need to be away from anyone and anything. Up here no one's watching, and up here I don't have to keep my guard up or try and pretend that it's _nothing_, I'm _fine_.

Up here I can fall apart if I have to, and I can try _not to_.

No one judging, none of those looks of pity, those damn 'oh, _poor Jason_' faces that grate against every single facet of my soul. _No laughter_. It's just me and my own thoughts and it feels… better. I barely remember what _good _feels like, but it's better than everything else is right now.

I stare over the edge of the roof, down into the yawning darkness of the surrounding area, thousands of feet down the sheer mountain that Ra's' base is built into and on top of. It's a _long _way down.

Would anyone even miss me? Bruce and Dick clearly wouldn't, if they ever even learned I'd been alive again it wouldn't _matter_. Talia, Ra's? No, never. I'm their pet criminal, their not-quite-evil kid that they can point to and say 'look, we're giving _him _a chance', to make themselves look good. I'm not worth anything past that, not to them. I'm a trophy and a dog, and that's _it_.

My throat tightens, and I feel _sick _at the thought that there isn't anyone else in the _world _who even knows I'm alive. I take another look over the edge.

It would take a jump, the building isn't close enough to the edge to just fall over the cliff, but I could do it _easily_. It would feel like falling — I was _Talon_, I _know _the difference between flying and falling — but I could handle that, and I know what death feels like. When I have seconds, there won't be anything but peace left. From this high up it would be instant, I wouldn't even have to take that last second of _pain_ that I remember. Nothing could bring me back from that, right? God, I _hope _not.

It would be so _easy_.

I get to my feet, slowly, balancing on the sloped tiles. The air is _cold _around me, the slight breeze cutting across my bare arms, throat, and face is enough to _hurt_, and the chill sinks through the clothes I do have on like they aren't even there. It's a sharp pain when I breathe in, and I can see the curl of visible air in front of me when I breathe back out. What would it feel like to fall through air that cold, without a suit to protect me? Would it numb me out before I hit the ground or would it just stay like this, where it feels as though the cold is scraping against my skin like the flat of a blade?

Who would care if I fell? Why should _I? _What's death to someone who's already dead?

I take a step forward, my front foot half off the edge of the tiles, and balance there. The night is utterly silent around me, like it's waiting, and for what could be minutes or seconds I just stand there. Poised, but my muscles loose and it would be half a _second _to just _leap _off the edge and then it would be _done_. No time for second guessing, no time for regret, just the certainty of death and a peaceful fall. It would be _so unbelievably easy_.

No.

It's harder than I thought it would be to step backwards, to step away from the ledge and nearly collapse back onto the roof. I don't realize how fast my breath is until I'm down, the tiles _freezing _against my bare hands so I tuck them around my stomach and curl into my knees. I don't know if I'm shivering from the emotional high — or is it _low? _— or the cold, but the tears that slip down my cheeks are startlingly warm, nearly _hot._

I take in a deep, unsteady breath, closing my eyes against my knees and trying not to think about the temptation of the edge barely two feet in front of me. It's impossible, I can nearly _feel _it, but I do my best to block it out anyway.

If I jump, if I die for the _second _time, what the hell would that prove? That I should never have gotten a second chance to begin with, that's _all_. Maybe I don't matter, maybe I'm not worth a damn to anyone I thought was family, but it doesn't have to stay that way. I can find a reason for life outside of being Talon and serving Bruce and Dick, I can be _something _else even if I'll never totally leave that name behind.

They _chose _to forget about me, they chose to replace me with some little bastard and move on without so much as a _day _in mourning. Well, what will it do to their _perfect _little world if I refuse to go along with that? What will they do if I put a knife in the replacement's chest and _twist? _What happens to their fucking _perfect _little life then? What if I take apart Bruce's criminal organizations bit by bit, _burn _them from the ground up?

Let them _dare _try and ignore me then.

The anger feels good, feels _warm _after the draining _hollow _of pain, and I wrap my fingers around it and _cling_. The next breath is steadier, and the one after that is flat. The tears dry like they were never there, and I clench my jaw for a second and flick my eyes back open. I don't move, yet, keeping my arms tight around my stomach and my head against my knees, breathing into the space between them. I shove the pain away from myself, let the anger _eat it alive_ and let my mouth curl up in a sneer.

I'm _done _with this bullshit.

I'm _done _being Talia's criminal pet, and I'm _done _with pining after two men that _clearly _never gave a damn about me in return, and I am _fucking_ _done _with being a victim.

If Bruce doesn't care then I'll tear his life down around him, kill his new _toy_, take apart his business, and hit him where it _hurts_, because I _can_. The son of a bitch will learn not to teach someone his secrets and then just _leave them_. If he won't kill the Jokester I _will_, and I'll take Bruce down with me too. Both of them can die together as far as I care, and Dick can go with them, the lying _bastard_. 'Always his' my _ass_.

I don't have to be a hero to let Talia teach me, and I can play at 'reforming' if that's what she wants from me. All I want from her is her training, and I'll get it however I have to because she at least had _one _good point.

I am _done running_.

* * *

><p>This jsut grew a plot on me, I swear. Every time I write Jason he spews backstory drama and depression at me, whether I like it or not. (There's an upcoming prompt about <em>reindeer <em>and he managed to make it sad.)

So obviously this takes place way before any of the rest of these stories. Jason's just out of the pit, and he's angsty and rage-filled and about to learn all of Talia and Ra's' combat secrets so he can become Red Hood. I've actually got almost all of this in between backstory section planned out, before he makes peace with the rest of the Owl-family in a way that honestly? Canon-Jason never really did with the Bats. And for anyone wondering, no. The All-Caste will not be a part of this continuity I'm making up. Ducra's cool, but that's a big old (in Earth-3 should be evil) organization that I just don't want to mess around with.

See you tomorrow!


	5. Home For Christmas

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true muse gave to me... '**Bruce/Tim, Toy Store**'. Tim is _so much fun to write_. Someday I'm going to try writing a piece from his perspective, but for now just accept this moment from Bruce's PoV. XD

This contains mentions of established Dick/Jason and Tim/Kon, and that's all the warnings. Enjoy this bit of fluff and silliness, before we get back to Jason being an angsty little shit.

* * *

><p>"Bruce."<p>

I resist the urge to just keel forward onto my computer, practice making it easy to bite back the long-suffering sigh already building in my chest and keep my face flat, to not even turn and look at the teenager approaching me.

"No," I say, answering the question that hasn't even left my third son's mouth yet. I _don't _look at Tim when he sits down on the arm of my chair, carefully studying the _very important information_ on the screen in front of me to best decide how to—

"_Bruce_," my son repeats, and I only allow my eyes to close in restraint because my helmet is on and Tim _can't see_.

"If you're asking," I say flatly, "then you know it's something I won't approve of. So my answer is _no_." The edge of his black cape slides inside the chair, leg shifting, and he leans back against my arm and the back of the chair. "_No, _Tim. Unless it is something utterly benign, which it is _not_, my answer is no and that _will not change_."

It should worry me that I even feel the need to repeat myself, or that I don't have to even hear him speak or even be _looking _at Tim to know exactly what he wants from me. It should also worry me that I let him question me at all. But it doesn't; I gave up on being concerned about my apparent lack of control over my adopted sons — and my one biological one — about the time that Dick took Jason as his own and promptly informed me that my second son was now his. Like I had no say in the matter, and the sad thing was that I knew I _didn't_.

Tim makes a sound eerily similar to Damian's regular 'tt'-ing noise, and I thank my own sense of costume design that he can't see me lift my gaze towards the ceiling for a second. This helmet is the best invention I have _ever _made, and I stand by that statement. It is _necessary_ for me to be able to deal with my sons. Nightingale, Red Hood, Black Talon — I still can't think that name without having to bite back the desire to sigh at Tim's rather petty hold on the name, which was also a passive aggressive way of informing me he did not _appreciate _me replacing him — and Talon. Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian. Those are just the boys, the _official _children I have.

Managing the Crime Syndicate is like _child's play _beside the impossible task of controlling my four kids, and I am perfectly aware that it is a rather sad observation. A group of superpowered, mass-murdering, crimelord, _psychopaths_, is easier for me to control than the sons that I _raised_. I stand by the theory that I am simply no longer able to intimidate my sons into obedience because of their prolonged exposure, and that this is _not _a fault in my parenting style. I am a _perfectly _capable father, and it is not my fault that my sons know that any threat I make is worthless because I would either never follow through with it, or I simply cannot enforce it.

The effort of enforcing any kind of restrictions on _any _of my sons is simply not worth the temporary obedience and the _resentment_.

_It's not my fault_.

"Damian and I will be robbing a toy store," Tim informs me flatly, and I know I've given away my reaction when my arm twitches. I trained Tim too well, and he's far too perceptive, not to have noticed. "Dick will likely accompany us, we may bribe Jason as well. If Dick does not simply _demand _he join our trip."

Oh _god_.

I give up on the screen, finally turning to Tim, who straightens up off my arm and the chair to meet me. He's perfectly straight, already put together in his all-black costume with the mimicry of _my _goggles pulled up onto his forehead for the moment instead of covering his eyes. He gives me a small smile, Dick's blinding, falsely innocent one, and I close my eyes for just a second to deal with it.

Sometimes — _all the time _— I wonder whether I am more proud of Tim for being, without a doubt, the best actor and the most intelligent of all my sons, or if I am simply frustrated and resigned that he has taken the best of all of our personalities and turned them back at us. When Tim came to me he was blank, an impressionable brick of clay, but then he watched us, and he _studied_, and he created his own persona from bits and pieces of ours. Alfred's implacable exterior and silent judging, Dick's smiles and the _ease _of him, _my _cold front and carefully crafted arrogance, and finally Jason's sneers and snarls. Tim is the collection of all the most effective parts of us, and he uses them on _us _almost more than he does on our actual enemies or allies.

I couldn't be more proud of him, but I am also resigned to the fact that I have created a _monster_. It is not precisely a comforting thought, even if that monster is currently under my control.

…

Correction, even if that monster is _choosing_ to currently be under my control.

"Tim—" I start, and there's a heavy thud from across the room, behind us, accompanied by a loud shout.

"_Ouch! _Dick you son of a _bitch!_" Jason's voice, and Dick is laughing over him. Lord, why do I even _try?_

"You could just buy whatever it is you're after," I offer, _not _turning to see precisely what my eldest has done to his younger brother. I probably don't want to know, and Dick probably wouldn't cripple Jason without at least warning Alfred beforehand. Alfred would warn _me_.

And speaking of, there's Alfred's disbelieving eyebrow on Tim's face. Less effective than normal, seeing as how it's mostly hidden behind the goggles. It still gets his point across before he even opens his mouth to speak, using one of Dick's tones. "But it's more _fun_ to just take it," he counters, "and it's a quiet night, clearly."

"Aww, should I kiss it better, little wing?"

"Get off me you bas— _gah!_"

_I don't want to know._

I gave up on the idea that Dick wasn't going to seduce and sleep with everything that caught his eye a _long _time ago, and Jason is no exception to that rule. Jason is Dick's, will _always _be Dick's. I didn't change that, Jason _dying _didn't change that, and nothing either of them has done has even made that particular relationship shift. I'm almost glad that at least two of my sons are happy with one another, and I am especially relieved it's the two sons that will _never _try and take this public as their real identities. Legally Jason is still dead, and that isn't going to change anytime soon. Dick would never settle for a single person anyway. Jason might, but for the moment he isn't restricting himself either. Tim seems to be the only person that's settled in with just a single partner, though I admit I try and keep well away from what precisely Tim does in his sex life, and he is far less open about it, so I suppose I am probably ignorant more than he was celibate.

I suppose that trait in my sons _is _my fault.

"It is a quiet night," I agree reluctantly. It's rare that all my boys are in the manor at the same time for more than being asleep, but the couple of weeks around Christmas are always a quiet time of year. It's good to have them all home again.

"It is _pathetic _how easily he manipulates you, Todd," comes Damian's voice from somewhere high in the cave, probably on top of the dinosaur or the coin. Damian prefers high places to leap down from and stab things, that's his mother's influence.

"_Fuck _you," Jason snaps back, and I swear I can _feel _Damian's smug, toothy grin.

"Grayson seems well on the way to that already. _Try _not to offend my senses any more than you usually do, Todd?"

Dick is laughing again, and Jason starts to snarl but cuts off with a yelp, and I keep my gaze carefully on Tim and don't look back. If I look back I'm going to have to comment, or try and stop one of them, or do _something _about whatever is going on, and since I still value the little sanity I have left after all these years I'm just not going to go there. No single man should have to deal with the four of them; I don't know how Alfred manages to make them _listen _to him. I'm going to go grey _years_ before my time, I swear.

"Robbing a store is rather juvenile," I comment dryly, and another of Dick's smiles twists Tim's mouth. A proud, laughing smile that combines with the slightest narrowing of eyes to make it Dick's nearly unique brand of dangerous and carefree. Nearly only because Tim has managed to copy it to near perfection.

"I _am _juvenile," he points out, as Jason gets out a full snarl and then there's another heavy thud. "As is Damian." He pauses briefly, and then his shoulder rises and his head tosses in one of Dick's shrugs. I wonder what it says about Tim's opinion of me that most of what he uses in our conversations was originally Dick's mannerisms. "Dick is close enough, and Jason can be juvenile if given the right motivation. Or _any _motivation."

I resist the urge to tell Tim that the fact that even my young twenties sons still generally behave like teenagers is _not _my issue with this trip. It's the idea of all four of my sons — my highly skilled, extremely deadly, trained to be killers since young childhood sons — going to rob a _toy store_. What could possibly be in there that would interest them, and what would the public think if they found out? I'm not sure what Gotham's citizens would do with the idea that all four of the Talons, previous and current, all headed out in the middle of the night to rob a toy store. I honestly don't know.

I'm sure I could put some spin on it to make it favorable — if Tim doesn't do that himself; he's usually good about covering his tracks — but that would be a fair bit of effort, and I'd rather not have to do it at all. Christmas is when I plan upcoming strategies for the year, it's one of the rare times that I actually don't have to be personally managing my various businesses. They run on their own, and my heroes are generally well behaved and quiet. I repay the favor.

"Surely there's something more valuable you could be taking," I say, not allowing the resignation to infect my tone. Tim already knows that he'll be doing precisely what he wants to, at this point any attempt at stopping him is rather pointless. The moment he had the idea it was too late to do anything about it. The idea that I ever had a _chance _is laughable.

How does Alfred _do this?_

"Perhaps," Tim admits, "but not as entertaining."

I let the sigh out. "Try not to get anything personal caught on camera," I request, and he leans in with one of Dick's softer smiles, pressing lips to what little of my cheek is exposed in what most people would consider mockery, but I choose to believe might actually be a bit of the real Tim showing through. Perhaps it's foolish, but I take what I can get from my sons. At the end of the day they are family, and as part of the 'Owl-family', that means everything. I am also fully aware that this is one more way that Tim manipulates me. I gave up on attempting to stop my sons from doing _that _too.

"Thank you, Father," he says quietly, sliding off the arm of my chair and turning away, striding back in the direction of where I assume Jason and Dick are. I will _not _look, at this point I know better.

I turn back to my computer as Tim calls Damian down from whatever he's perched on, tuning out the rest of the conversation as I lean back in my chair and refocus my attention on the screen and the information spread out across it. My boys can take care of themselves, they'll be fine, and I admit that although it's nice to have them all home for this week before the holidays, it will also be _quite _refreshing to have some of the silence that I'm accustomed to back.

Ignoring the conversation behind me — Jason sounds kind of outraged but that's normal, as is Dick's glee — I hit one of the buttons built into my chair, angling my mouth the right direction to speak into the activated microphone.

"Alfred, coffee please."

"_Are the young masters going out, sir?" _he asks, voice filtering in through my helmet.

I can hear the footsteps as the arguing fades with distance, and I let out a soft sigh in relief as I hear one of my cars — it must be the larger one, because no two-seater will fit all four of them even with the _creative _ways they sit — start up and then, after a bit, screech out of the cave.

I press the button down again. "Yes, to rob a _toy store_." I still… I just don't understand them sometimes.

"_I see." _He sounds dryly amused, certainly, but also quite understanding. "_Master Timothy's idea, was it? I'll brew it extra strong and be right down, sir."_

"Thank you, Alfred."

* * *

><p>Did I mention how much fun Tim is? This actually was the piece that pretty much solidified both Tim and Bruce as characters to me. I'll try writing Tim, I promise, but this just <em>had <em>to be from Bruce's PoV. Fun fact; trying to parent four trained-since-childhood assassins and murderers is _not easy_. Alfred is the only one who can manage it, and that's just because he's ridiculous and awesome. Bruce just tries to get them to not do anything _too _bad to each other, or anyone else, and is a firm believer in plausible deniability. If he doesn't _know_, he isn't required to stop them. XD

So, in continuity, this is somewhere near the end in the same year as 'Holiday Spirit'. Probably a bit _before_ that happens, and whatever happens at that toy store, the bells are Jason's revenge. Yeah, just go with that. (Is it clear that I'm making this up off the top of my head? 'Cause I am.)

See you tomorrow, when you get to find out how Jason made _reindeer _sad. (Damn that boy but give him _all _the hugs. Seriously.)


	6. Waiting for the Hoofbeats

So, on the sixth day of Christmas my true muse gave to me, '**Jason/Roy, Reindeer**', and because I am a fool I thought this would be happy, and amusing_, and I should know better_. Nothing from Jason's PoV stays happy for long.

This contains established relationships of Dick/Jason and Jason/Roy, mentions of established Kori/Roy and Tim/Kon, and mentions of brief Dick/Roy. It also contains some Jason-angst, and some _awful _childhood moments that include neglect and potential (probable) abuse. Because _Jason_.

* * *

><p>This is the first time I've spent a real winter here, at the base with this weird combination of Dick's team and mine. They were <em>all <em>Dick's originally, in some ways they still are, but some of them are mine now too. Or I'm theirs. Sometimes it's hard to tell with our groups. I'd like to think at least most of those kind of things go both ways. Though Kori definitely has things that are _hers_, but I'm pretty sure the first person who dared to call her _theirs _would get roasted alive, _slowly_. That one has some issues.

The company is nice, the _heat _is better.

I spent a lot of time in — there's no good way to put it — shit hole apartments, hiding from everyone and everyone, and trying not to freeze because _none _of those places have any kind of decent heating system. I grew up in _Gotham_, on the _streets_, so I'd like to think I have a pretty damn good tolerance of cold, but tolerance and enjoyment are two _totally _different things. Just because I _can _survive in just a t-shirt, some old jeans, and a ratty coat in the middle of winter doesn't mean I _like _to.

So of all the things I appreciate about our mountain base, the heating is pretty much the biggest one. Maybe that makes me sad, or pathetic, or just a really obvious and never recovered street rat, but I stand by appreciating the smaller things. When you've spent weeks huddled in whatever corner of a room holds warmth the best, under every shred of fabric you own and _still_ shivering and mostly numb, you learn to never take the simple things for granted. Heat, decent clothing, a bed that's more than concrete or rotting floorboards, and the guarantee of food.

I don't think I'm ever going to shake that nagging fear that something's going to happen and all of it's going to vanish, _again_. That whisper at the back of my head that I'm not worth all of this, and someday someone's going to realize that. Eventually someone's going to put things together and figure out that the great Red Hood isn't anything more than a lucky street kid with a knack for learning how to hit things. But I intend to take every _single _moment I can before that happens.

It's nice to not be alone, and I'm not giving it up without a fight.

Roy shifts where he's half underneath me, stretching and giving a pleased hum of sound. More than appreciating the slide of his naked skin against mine, or the lingering fuzziness to my thoughts, or the smell of sex in the air, I just enjoy the warmth of his body and the beat of the pulse echoing through his skin into mine. Here, against his back where no one can see me, I allow myself that much. I know better than to love — if _love _is even real; god knows _I've _never felt or seen it — but that doesn't mean that in these moments, when no one's looking, I can't just enjoy the comfort of another body next to mine.

"Memories never compare," Roy comments, voice hazy and so warm and _open _it nearly hurts. How can Roy _do _that? How can he be so at ease, so perfectly trusting, of everyone in our group of murdering psychopaths, and sociopaths, and wherever the fuck _I _fit into that spectrum? I don't think I've _ever _had the ability to trust like that.

"Yeah?" I ask, instead of asking any of the things I wonder about him.

"_Yeah_." The laugh that spills out of him is sleepy, and I nose his hair out of the way and press my forehead between his shoulder blades, pulling him a little closer to me with the arm around his waist. "You feeling the holiday spirit or what, Jaybird?"

"I _was _feeling the ice cream," I answer with a bit of sarcasm, "but I'm pretty much good now." He snorts and laughs again, brighter this time and less hazed over. I smother a grin against his skin.

God damn Wally's pornographic ways of eating ice cream, but I guess I should thank him. I suppose I should thank _myself_ for buying him the damn sugar in the first place, actually. I got two rounds of sex with a seriously hyped up Roy out of it, after all. I'd guess in the morning, when Tim and Kon reemerge and Dick shows back up from whatever room he ended up in, I'm going to get some nasty looks but also a lot of behind-other-people's-backs thank yous. It was accidental, but I did _good_.

Plus, it turns out that not only was there a blanket in the control room, there's a bed that folds out of the wall. A nice one. I guess it is an Owl-family control room, after all, so I guess Bruce pretty much _expected _a lot of nights sleeping in here when he built the place. He probably wasn't intending it to be used as a room for sex outside of the masks, but then again this is _Bruce_. He might have been thinking of exactly that.

Roy's laughter fades to snickers, his torso and shoulders barely shaking with them. "Just 'pretty much'?" he teases, over his shoulder. "You must be insatiable because I _know _I'm _fantastically _satisfying."

"And really humble, _clearly_," I counter, muffled against his back but still totally understandable. It's not like he's _wrong_. Sex with Roy might not be the kind of ridiculously brain-killing, wipe-me-out sex that I have with Dick, but it's still _damn _good. There's really only a couple things that are different at all. Sex with Roy usually doesn't hurt, for one thing, and boy does it sound _fucked up _— now that I think about it — that I count that as a negative.

I wonder if that's just because it's not the way Roy works, or if he's holding back, or if it's just what he's used to. His normal sex is with aliens and metahumans, after all — I've seen the burns Kori leaves on him sometimes — so maybe he's used to watching what he does. I can definitely imagine Kori being really particular about what can or can't be touched, and what her bed partners are allowed to do to her.

I wonder if I could ask — or tell — Roy that he doesn't have to be careful with me. I wonder if he'd listen.

"I'm not much for virtues," he says with another laugh. Of all of us, I think Roy is the happiest. At least, the most outwardly happy. You can't get through a conversation with our archer without him laughing at least once, and when he's in post-sex warmth he's pretty much overflowing with it. "Just count me in the naughty list. If Santa wants me to give this up to be 'nice', he can kiss my ass."

This time I can't help but snort. "You _would _still believe in Santa, wouldn't you? Dork."

"Reindeer, dude. _Flying_ _reindeer_."

I groan and bury my head farther into his back, enjoying the warmth of his skin and shaking my head just a little bit at his absolute ridiculousness. "Yes, Roy, reindeer _do _exist. But even if they _could _fly, they're _so_ not pulling a magic sleigh through the air." My tone is sarcastic, and he gasps in mock horror.

"You don't believe in Santa, Jaybird?" he asks, sounding curious but still with that teasing, mocking note to his voice. Like he just can't _believe _that I _don't _believe in something as ridiculous as the idea of Santa.

"A fat man in a red coat with a long white beard, who gives out gifts to the 'nice' children out of the kindness of his heart, sneaks into everyone's houses without them noticing, and does it all in a single night? Yeah, no thanks."

I make a disgruntled noise when Roy abruptly flips over, my nose smacking against his shoulder blade on the way past, and gives me an amused, considering look with a wide grin.

"We're two humans among a speedster, a telepathic and telekinetic _shape-shifting_ alien, a super-strong _flying_ alien, _another_ super-strong flying alien who can shoot what's basically nuclear power from her hands, another shape-shifter, a guy from _Atlantis_, and a _magician_. You find _Santa_ totally out of the question?"

"It's not the _physics_," I say with a roll of my eyes, "even though they don't make any sense even in _our_ world. Come on. Where does he get it all? Where does he store the gifts? If he's got a base why haven't the _hundreds_ of metahumans found it yet…? It's total bullshit, Roy."

"But that's just the physics," Roy argues. "Just assume he's in his own pocket dimension with whatever he needs to make this happen. You _said_ your problem wasn't with the physics anyway, spill."

My stomach swirls a little uneasily, clenching for just a second, and I hold out under the hope that he might not be close enough now that he's flipped over to feel the tell. He doesn't give any kind of reaction, anyway. "Well sure, you can explain _anything_ in our world if you factor in enough superpowered _bullshit_."

Roy snorts and slings his arm over my waist, snuggling in a little closer. Yes, _snuggles_, because there is no other word to describe what Roy does. He's a damn highly trained combat specialist and a genius with a knack for creating some of the deadliest weapons I've ever seen, but the son of a bitch _snuggles_. Not even _Dick_ does that, and when he's asleep he's practically an octopus. There's a certain lack of dignity that Roy has down to an art, to the point where I legitimately question how anyone can still see him as a serious contender in our world.

I suppose he just puts arrows in anyone who thinks he's not worth anything. That fixes it. It's like me shooting people who think I'm a pushover just because I died. Fuckers.

He pushes me onto my back with pretty much no subtlety or concern for my comfort, curling up half on top of me with his right leg pressing between mine and his crotch pressed up against my hip, and I let him. I could kick his ass if I needed to, since I'm more than a match for an unarmed Roy. I'm the hand-to-hand fighter; he's the ranged specialist. I'm a damn good shot with a gun, but Roy can wipe the floor with me with a ranged weapon of pretty much any kind. I know, we've had that competition.

He won; I still got great sex out of it so I really didn't count it as a loss. Just confirmation of what I already knew.

Roy props himself up on my chest, arms crossed to support his head as he looks down at me. "Come on, Jason," he says, with a smile, "it's Christmas Eve, time for sharing and all that. So share. Why don't you like the idea of Santa?"

I hold back a grimace, but I feel my mouth flatten out into a line. "Seriously?" I ask, and his eyes narrow just a little. Not in a threatening way, just curious.

"Yeah, seriously. Come on, Christmas is like the high point of every kid's year. Except birthdays."

I have to swallow back the desire to push Roy away from me and get up, get dressed, get _out_. He doesn't mean anything by it, he doesn't _know _he's digging into old wounds and bad memories. How could he? Roy's a rich kid at the end of the day. He spent some time on the streets, but it wasn't much and it wasn't hard for him like it was for me. It was Star City, not Gotham, and _nowhere _compares to Crime Alley. It's not the same. How the hell could he know what it was like growing up there?

"I guess I was never on anyone's list," I say, in just about the most roundabout, vague way I can think of to tell Roy that my childhood wasn't like his.

He blinks, looking confused for a second, and then there's that awful moment where I can _see _the realization click into place in his head. Fuck, I _hate _these moments. "You never got gifts?" he asks, quietly, and I push away the instinctive clench of my jaw and tension in my shoulders before it can happen.

"No," I answer flatly, and then I _am _pushing him away, off me until I can sit up against the wall. "Are we done with this?" I ask, sharper than I mean to. I don't _like _holidays, and I don't like talking about it.

Christmas was never _fun_ for me, not the way everyone else seems to think of it. It was one _sick _reminder every year that my dad was a piece of shit and my mom was too strung out to care, and if I was lucky the fact that it was Christmas meant that they'd be too busy screaming at each other to remember I existed. Even after they were gone it's not like things got _better_. Then it was cold, and I was alone, and I got to see _everyone _else being happy through their windows as I struggled to pull together enough to have something to eat. It was awful, and I was jealous and _bitter_, and I _hated _it.

"Jesus Christ," Roy says, sitting up with me, facing me, and _totally _ignoring my obvious dislike of the subject. "_Never? _You've _never _gotten gifts for Christmas?"

I bare my teeth for just a second, but when he doesn't back off I grudgingly answer, "Only when I was Talon."

"But that was like, a year," Roy protests, eyeing me, and I meet his look evenly and without snarling like I want to.

Yeah, I remember the one Christmas where I was Talon, and I got treated to the Wayne family Christmas party. It was… I wish to _god _I could say it was everything I wanted, but it wasn't. It was overwhelming, and nauseatingly fake, and I wanted to tear the faces off of every single socialite butterfly _prick_ that tried to cozy up to me because I was the new Wayne kid and _obviously _that meant I could be manipulated. Selfish _assholes_. I made it through about half the night — "_Training_," Dick told me when it started, with a smile and a flash of a palmed knife — before I couldn't stand it anymore, and I hid on a balcony and pretended that this was just like any other year before. Watching from outside, not part of what was past the glass because if I was it meant that I was part of something I _knew _I didn't really belong to.

My only good memory from that night was when Alfred found me, not that I thought he'd ever actually lost track of me. When he slipped out onto my balcony, silently sitting down next to me in my shielded corner with a plate full of various sugar, a cup of hot chocolate, and a small wrapped gift. When he waited there just long enough for me to take the first sip — hot, but not enough to burn — and my first bite, before running a gentle hand through my hair, laying a coat that I swear he _materialized_ over my shoulders, and leaving me alone.

The gift wasn't anything big, wasn't expensive, it was just a plain metal chain and dog-tag with a 'J' imprinted on it. A stylized 'J', so if you didn't look too closely, didn't know, you could mistake it as a 'T'. Safe to wear anywhere, in costume or out of it, and it didn't expect or demand anything of me. It didn't say Todd, and it didn't say Wayne. Alfred never expected me to be anything but exactly who I was.

I lost it somewhere in the middle of dying and getting dragged back to life. I have no idea where it ended up.

Roy makes an unhappy noise and reaches forward, and I do my best not to pull away when his hand touches my thigh. "That's _stupid_," he says, and my lip curls up in a snarl — because how _fucking _dare he? — before he continues, "and we're _fixing _it."

"What the hell are you talking about?" I demand, and Roy shifts closer, green eyes — not the same shade as the Jokester's, thank _god_ — lowering as he snorts.

"Well it's a _little _late to do anything about it now," he says, shrugging one shoulder up and meeting my gaze again, "but next year?" He grins, still with a bit of an edge but it's an uncomfortable, sad edge, not one that makes me think he's going to try stabbing me. Not that Roy has anything to stab me with on him. I'm _not going _into the terrible pervert jokes that I could make out of that. "Oh, next year you're going to _drown_ in presents and _awesomeness_," Roy promises.

I snort, eyeing Roy with a weird look because really? _Really?_ "Come on Roy, knock it off."

"No! I'm serious!" He firmly plants himself next to me, cuddling up against my side and pushing his way beneath my arm, head on my shoulder and one hand resting on my chest. "It's a _crime_ that you've got shit Christmas-feels, Jason. We might be criminals but this will not _stand_." He's grinning, lending a teasing edge to everything he says, and his lips press against the skin of my shoulder as I stare down at him. "I'm going to change this for you, Jaybird. Nobody should be sad during Christmas, man, and you've got no say in this so suck it up and just let me do it."

That's…

It's probably sad how _nice_ that promise feels. Roy might be a dork, an _idiot_ at times, but he generally means well. The few people he counts as friends, he takes care of. I guess I count as one of them. That almost stings to think about.

I duck my head down next to his, swallowing and reaching across my chest with the hand not conscripted into lying around his back to take hold of the hand against my chest. I don't look at him; my face is tucked against the top of his head so that's kind of an impossible thing unless I want to pull back, and I _don't_. He shifts, pressing a little closer, and I give his hand a single squeeze. It's sad, it's _pathetic_, how good this feels. How tight my throat is from just _words_ — promises don't mean _shit,_ I know that — and the touch of a body that isn't mine. From some idiot promise that won't mean anything in a month, that will get _forgotten_.

"I guess I've got a year to brace myself," I say, instead of saying the _stupid_ 'thank you' hovering at the tip of my tongue. _No_. I _won't_. Roy isn't family, and I wouldn't even trust family like that anyway. Words are just words.

"Totally," Roy agrees, probably oblivious to my thoughts although I really _don't_ know how much Roy absorbs. He might behave like a moron most of the time, and speak with no apparent filter between his brain and his mouth, but then sometimes he _says_ things like he knows exactly what goes on in our heads. I really don't know how perceptive he is, or how well he knows the rest of us. Maybe I don't want to.

His mouth is hot against my skin — the air is just slightly chilly to me, so Roy _must_ be cold — and his hand strokes up along my chest to grip my shoulder briefly before sliding back down to rest over my heart. With anyone else I might be worried, but not Roy. Roy isn't that sneaky, he's not that _deceitful_. If he was going to kill me, I'd know it long before he got this close.

"You know," Roy says after a couple seconds of silence, "it's _Christmas Eve_. Shouldn't you be with N?"

"Shouldn't you be with Kori?" I counter, and he snorts.

"Touché." He wiggles a bit, getting more comfortable, I _guess_. "It's that whole 'human customs' thing; Kori doesn't get the idea of Christmas so she wouldn't understand even if I did spend the night with her. N's _human _though, no matter how much he doesn't _seem _like it. Why aren't you with him?"

"Wally," I answer flatly, and Roy gives a muffled burst of laughter against my shoulder. "Nightingale's," I barely stop myself from saying Dick, "in the mood to fuck someone, and that's not my thing. It's not like we're sentimental anyway, he won't care."

"Do _you?_" Roy asks, and my breath hitches just a little bit. Like _that_. Sometimes Roy says things like _that _and it makes me wonder how well he really knows all of us, how much we _miss _because he acts so carefree all the time. He _is _a genius, no matter how much of a fool he acts like.

"No," I answer bluntly, and then admit, "maybe. Fuck, I don't know." It's not like Christmas really means anything to me. I know it means shit to _other _people, I know it _should _mean things to me, but it just… Christmas isn't anything but bad or bittersweet memories to me — like the tiny gifts I found at my constantly changing doorstep twice every year as Red Hood, signed _Alfred_ — and I can _try _to turn it into something else but I don't know if it will ever work. I really don't know if I want it to.

"You sound really sure of yourself," Roy says dryly, and I knock my shoulder up into his head just to hear his disgruntled, exaggerated sound of pain. I didn't hit him _that _hard.

"Shut up, ass," I gripe, making a show of it way more than I actually mean the words. "I don't expect anything from N, and he doesn't expect anything from me. It works." It's not like what Dick and I have is _love_. It's desire, and possession, and loyalty, and a dozen other things a lot simpler and a lot easier to believe in than the idea of 'love'. I'm his, and in some ways he's mine — when he wants to be — but it's not like we're exclusive or any shit like that. If we were he wouldn't be off fucking someone else, and I wouldn't be here with Roy. What we have…

It works. That's all that's important.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you can't share a moment, right? There's gotta be a romantic bone in you _somewhere_, Jaybird." I can feel him grin again. "Apart from your cock, of course."

I snort and roll my eyes, tilting my head back against the wall. "By _your _logic, you should be off with Kori," I point out. "N's not a one-person guy, Roy. You know that. _You've_ slept with him, haven't you?" To be completely, totally honest, it doesn't even make me jealous. I know Roy's pretty, obviously so does Dick, and it was obvious what my 'brother' and I were from the first time we ever fucked. I never expected more than what he was willing to give.

Mostly, the thought of Roy and Dick together just makes me want to be a fly on the wall. I'd _so_ watch that, and be _really _happy.

"Yeah," Roy confirms, "the once. It didn't work out great so we didn't do it again. 'M not much of a fan of pain, you know?" Well… _no_. I knew Roy didn't prefer pain, but I don't naturally cause pain to my partners so it's never come up between us. That's just something I do for Dick, because I know he likes a touch of it. Because I know he can _take_ it. "Alright, I'll drop it. I won't make you go to N, if you don't make me go to Kori. Deal?"

"Deal," I agree, raising the hand on his back to slide through his hair, scraping over his scalp. He all but _melts_ into me, giving a thick, _pleased_, moan. Being able to do that to him makes me happy, and I try not to look any further at it than just that.

It's not even about the whole 'expecting more' thing of my relationship with Dick anyway. I'm not going to him because, at the moment, he wants to fuck someone. It can't be me, so I'll stay out of his way. I'm not willing to be that for him, I still can't stomach the thought, and it's as simple as that. I won't cause myself pain — that I don't like — for _anyone_. Not even Dick.

"We're just going to have to have sex all night," Roy says groggily, and I blink and pull back enough to look down at him.

"What?" I ask, _sure _that I must have heard him wrong. That's a totally non sequitur, random statement. "I'm not _complaining_, but _what?_"

"Do you want the reason you'll understand, or the _real _reason I'm suggesting it?"

I stare down at him for a second, and he doesn't even look up, before slowly answering, "The real reason?"

"It's Christmas Eve," he says immediately. "We're going to have to stay up all night to see if there are any reindeer on the roof or if Santa's coming down the chimney. It's a basic thing. _Tradition_. Your learning starts now."

"We're in a _mountain_, we don't _have _a roof. _Or _a chimney."

"That's _so _not the point, Jaybird. We _have _to stay up all night, just go with it. It's a Christmas thing."

I can't hold back the groan, squeezing my eyes shut at the… the _moron _that is Roy Harper. "What's the reason I'll understand?" I ask, almost dreading the answer, and he wiggles his way out from under my arm to swing his leg over my thigh and settle firmly across my lap, grinning widely. My arms raise automatically to stabilize him, one hand on his hip and the other hooked around his back.

"I want to give you a Christmas to remember," he says, tilting his head, hands settling on either side of my waist and stroking upwards. His grin isn't _Dick's _level of wicked, but it's not that far off. "Having sex till dawn sounds like a good start, don't you think?"

Well… "I'm not going to turn you _down_." I don't know about all of this Christmas shit, but if Roy wants to fuck until neither one of us can move? I'm good with that. I'll _always _be good with that.

"Good," he says brightly, "then let's make memories, huh?"

"Dork," I accuse, and I will deny that it comes out fondly until the day I die… again.

"Merry Christmas to you too, Jaybird."

* * *

><p>There you go. How Jason managed to somehow make a prompt about <em>reindeer <em>sad. The man's got a talent, I tell you. By the way, most of that backstory is totally canon to normal-Jason. His dad got dragged off to prison and vanished, his mother overdosed on drugs, and he pretty much made a living off of being a thief up until he (before the new 52 rewrite) stole the tires off the batmobile. Security flaw, in the middle of an upgrade. That was a thing. XD (In new 52 now he almost died, ended up in a clinic, and got caught stealing a box of first aid supplies while coming out the window. Leslie Thompkins convinced Batman to take him. I appreciate tire-stealing Jason way more.)

Yeah, Jason and Roy are pretty much the two punching bags of the human DC universe. These two just can't catch breaks, _ever_. (You should see the rest of Jason's backstory. And if anyone's curious, I'm happy to let you know in a PM or a comment.)

So, in continuity, obviously, this happens right after 'Christmas Desserts', aka the Wally/Ice Cream story. XD And, since that's pretty seriously obvious, I've got no more clarifications to make about it. See you tomorrow (while I hope to god I finish this next one in time)~!


	7. You're a Mean One

Alright, so this one is a little late - I had to work all day - but it's 7PM my time and I'm finally home, so send up a cheer! So on this, the seventh day, my true muse gave to me... '**Bruce/Clark/Jason, Grinch**'. Now, I may have excluded Clark because this turned into a delightful (I mean to write, not to read DX) bit of Bruce/Jason angst. She forgave me, so attempt enjoying!

This contains a lot of angsting, mentions of some nasty violence, and Bruce/Jason being dicks to each other (no pun intended). Also, _all _the Jason-feels. Like oh my god. I'm sorry.

* * *

><p>I ignore the phone when it rings, like always. This time though, with a little extra bitterness.<p>

It's _fucking _Christmas, so I don't know who the hell could be calling me. It's not _my _line anyway, it's Red Hood's line. Which means there's some evil _fuck _hiring me to do mercenary work on _Christmas_. What kind of bastard wants someone dead or something stolen on Christmas? Isn't that like, some kind of taboo? Isn't this the one time of year where people try and get along, or some shit like that?

I mean, it's not like I have anything _better _to do. My Christmas is going to be spent sitting on my bed with my laptop, hunting down leads or planning out how to fuck over the Owls next. That, and staring at the small, cheerily wrapped gift sitting on my table. Dropped on my doorstep by someone I didn't catch a glimpse of — I've only been here about a week, so that's impressive — with no fingerprints, no evidence of _any _kind, just a signature. _Alfred_.

It hasn't done anything yet, but I'm still worried it's going to spew gas or straight out _explode _if I open it. I've been sitting around with my knife at hand — it's _always _near me, but legitimately sitting right next to my hand — and my helmet on, just in case.

The ringing stops, the automatic clicks of the voicemail starting making me sneer, just a little. Someone's persistent, the _bastard_. They better hope they've got a damn good deal to offer me or I might track them down and kill them just on principle. _I _might not get the whole big deal about Christmas — it's always been _shit _for me — but I understand enough to know it's pretty damn rude to do anything massively fucked up on the day itself. At least wait for tomorrow or something.

"_If you have this number you know who I am," _my recording starts, in the modulation from my helmet, "_and what I do. Leave the details here; if I'm interested I'll call back."_

I click over to another page of information as the standard beep shrills its warning, tapping my fingers against the keys in thought as I cock my head a little bit to get a better angle for hearing the voicemail. Not everyone bothers to speak at a decent volume.

"_Jason."_

I'm on my feet on the wooden floor before I realize I've even moved, the laptop skewed at an angle across the bed and my knife in my hand, knuckles clenched tight enough to be white around it. My throat works, swallowing on pure reflex because _fuck_, he wasn't supposed to hunt me down like this. It was supposed to be the other way around, I was supposed to hunt _him _down and take everything of his apart. I was never supposed to be on the defensive.

Fuck, I have to move. I have to get out _now_. The package must have been some kind of fucking tracker that didn't set off any of the scans I ran it through, and I have to get the hell out of this apartment because it will be minutes at best before I've got at _least _one Owl crashing through my window.

On _Christmas? Really? _Don't they have better shit to do?

I run for my costume, shucking off clothes on the way, and get about halfway into it — changing absurdly fast is kind of a part of the package of being a masked anything — before the damn voice of the _bastard _speaks again.

"_Jason, if you're there, I haven't traced the number and I'm not going to." _I drag on my shirt and grab my jacket, looking over my shoulder at the phone. "_I just want to speak, briefly. You have my word."_

Oh, _fuck _it.

I shrug on my jacket and cross the room, grabbing the phone from it's cradle and jamming the button a lot harder than I probably should. "Like your _word_ means anything," I snarl, whirling on my heel to pull out the bottom drawer of my dresser, loaded with all my weapons. "You've got about twenty seconds to convince me not to hang up and vanish, _Bruce_."

"_You're a mercenary aren't you, __**Red Hood?**_" I can hear the disdain in his voice, the obvious dislike of my usual profession when I'm not fucking with him. "_I have work that needs to be done."_

"You've gotta be fucking joking." I shove my main handgun into the holster at my left thigh, sheathing my knife on the other side and then reaching into the pocket of my jacket to retrieve my gloves, the phone held between my shoulder and my ear. "I know _damn _well you've got a list of mercenaries. Call one of _those _poor suckers."

"_It's Christmas," _Bruce says dryly, pointedly, "_and this is time sensitive. Most mercenaries won't work today."_

"So what? You're calling me 'cause you think I have no standards? Did you fucking _miss _the part where I'm tearing all your businesses down? What the hell makes you think I'd work for you?" I slam the drawer shut and stand up, _waiting _for the answer because _fuck_, Bruce must have a damn good reason why he thinks I'd _ever _work for him again. "Plus, what the _fuck _makes you think I'll trust that all of this isn't a trap?"

"_There's no assurance I can offer that isn't based on my word, you know that. I'll pay your rates up front, in whatever manner you prefer. It shouldn't take more time than the rest of the day, and you can dictate where and how we meet." _Bruce's voice tightens, gaining a dangerous edge that makes me wince on automatic. "_**I **__am risking just as much as you, __**Jason**__. There are at least as many ways that you can turn this into a trap as I can."_

"It's like you think I'd trust _any _way you could pay me," I snap, "and that's not telling me why I should take whatever job you have in mind. _You _should know that I'm damn picky about the jobs I take, Bruce."

Alright, god _damn _it, I'm curious. Assuming this isn't a trap meant to lure me off to get my ass handed to me, what the hell kind of job has to be done on Christmas day, that Bruce can't just do himself? It's a rare thing that he _ever _calls mercenaries — he's dangerous enough on his own, plus he's got the lower ranked villains, _and _the Talons; Dick, fucking _Tim _the little shit, and me at one point — and pretty much never needs them on this short of a notice. What's going on?

"_Like I said, I can pay you __**any way you prefer**__. If you need a reason, do it for your reputation. Working a job even through a personal grudge would lend credibility to your professionalism, wouldn't it? The nature of it will make sure it's known to our circles, but I can also spread the word if you want me to."_

I bite my tongue. Damn him but he's _right_. If I work a job for Bruce, even though it's total public knowledge that I want Owlman and everything to do with him dead and burned, that's going to add some serious weight to my name. It's proof that even if I don't like someone, even if I _hate _them, I can be professional and get the job done. For the right price. For a _ridiculous _price.

"What's the job?" I ask, against _all _of my better judgment. This is _stupid_, but _fuck_ if it isn't seriously tempting.

_No_, it isn't because I want to see the bastard again. The only way I want to see Bruce is bleeding or in _pain_, but charging him a ridiculous amount of money for whatever he wants — _way _more than I'd charge anyone else — is definitely going to make me at least a _little _vindictively pleased. Sure, Bruce has got the money to throw away and it won't _really _make a dent, but taking money from him will definitely _feel _good.

"_I require muscle at my side for a meeting, it shouldn't be anything more than your time, if things go as they should." _That's nearly a guarantee coming from him; Bruce doesn't make plans that he isn't almost entirely sure will end up how he wants.

"Why _me?_" I ask with a sneer. "You've got Dick and the little _bastard_, plus all the rest of the Crime Syndicate. Call one of _them_."

"_Most are __**busy**__," _Bruce answers sharply, "_and it's more than just needing __**someone**__, Jason. I can't bring anyone who might be used as leverage against me to this meeting, that would be a sure way to bring it crashing down around our ears."_

"And I don't fucking matter," I finish for him, clenching my teeth at the bitter knife twisting in my stomach, "I _get _it." _Damn _the bastard. _Fuck _him.

"_The public knows we're fighting," _Bruce confirms, "_and that is another reason you are more fit for this than any of my minor subordinates I could demand accompany me. The __**fact **__that you are an enemy of mine, and are surviving, gives you enough of a threatening reputation just by itself. You know that, Jason."_

Yeah, I knew that a lot of the business I've gotten in the last year was because of my public feud with the Owl-family. I took down Nightingale — the world didn't need to know that it was his fault, not my skill — I took down Talon, and I've survived fights with Owlman himself. I haven't backed down, and I _know _that makes people respect me long before they've ever met me.

_Damn _Bruce, but he's got a point.

"Yeah," I agree, reluctantly. I lean against the dresser, thinking, and he stays silent on the other end. "Fine," I spit eventually. "It'll cost you double my usual rates, but I'll do it. It's not like the money matters to you anyway. I want it in gold or jewels, sent where I tell you to, and if you try tracking me or fucking _touching _me after this is done I'll make it _hurt_. Got me?"

The low burn in my stomach stings, _aches_, but I swallow it away and don't think about it. Fuck the bastard, he deserves every _inch _of what I do to him. He abandoned me a long time before I ever did the same to him. He _deserves _it.

"_Of course, I'll put it together. The meeting is in Metropolis; are you close enough to make it there by 4PM?" _I guess he really _doesn't _know where I am, and hasn't tracked me down yet. That actually makes me feel pretty good. I knew I could hide, I've been doing it since I stabbed Dick and then _really _since I did the same to my replacement. The gift from Alfred — _apparently _from Alfred — just made me question it a bit.

"I'm close enough. Got a place to meet?" This whole conversation has been decent enough proof that it's not just a trap, I don't really need to dictate where we meet. I don't know where we're heading, exactly, for the meeting, so it's easiest if he picks the place anyway. I don't care. Much.

"_I'll email you the details." _Yeah, of _course _he has my main email. I'm not even surprised. "_See you there."_

* * *

><p>It's a rooftop, of course, because where the fuck else would Bruce meet <em>anyone? <em>It's this or an alley. Alleys if he's got the car, a rooftop if he's got the jet. _Christ _is he predictable sometimes, and _fuck _is it _cold _up here. I haven't got an insulated suit like that jackass, and armor padding aside my usual 'costume' isn't really designed for cold. I'm dealing. I've suffered worse colds with less clothing. It'll be fine.

The jet is quieter than I remember — upgraded, probably — and sets down with only the slightest hum of engines across the roof from me, the top sliding up and out of the way almost immediately. I stand, waiting, with one hand resting on my gun. Still in its holster, but the flap undone to let me draw it easier. My helmet is hooked under that same arm, for the moment. I'll put it on when he gets closer.

Bruce's form jumping out of the jet is painfully familiar, and as my jaw clenches I'm thankful that my helmet will hide my face as soon as I put it on. I don't need to give the son of a bitch any more tells than he's already going to get from body language. I've never been great at the whole guarded poker face thing, not like the rest of the Owls. The little shit might have hid behind everyone else's face, but it was still on purpose. You can't make Dick stop smiling if he doesn't want to, and Bruce… Well, Bruce has the best mask out of all of us. He doesn't _give _a fuck.

I shift as he approaches, taking one last drag of the cigarette between the fingers of my right hand before tossing it aside and letting the snow put it out with a faint hiss that's nearly inaudible underneath the rush of the wind at this height. I keep the smoke in my lungs for a moment before letting it out, and it's a _bad _habit and I _know _that, but why the _fuck _should I be afraid of what it's going to do to me? I'm going to die a long time before the possibility of damage to my lungs is ever a thing, and I like the way the smoke burns. It's like a good shot of alcohol.

I tug the helmet out from under my arm and then onto my head, feeling and hearing it click into place with a soft hiss of air. The HUD flicks to life, and like always I take just a second to get used to it. Readouts for what's working, what the air is around me, how cold or hot it is, and everything else I could need to know at a moment's notice. It's _my _helmet.

"Red Hood," Bruce says when he's close enough, stopping roughly four feet from me. An easy distance to cross if either of us wanted to.

So it's _that _kind of a meeting is it? The kind where someone's probably listening — that's just a good thought to have in Metropolis all the time, fucking Ultraman — and we're back to voice modulators and titles, code names. I guess that shouldn't be surprising. If Bruce can't bring anyone to this meeting that might get used against him, and they have to be as dangerous as the world thinks _I _am, caution is probably best.

"Owlman," I answer, curtly.

His head turns just a little, following the path of my hand to where the cigarette landed. "Smoking?" His tone is disapproving, and I sneer behind the helmet even if he can't see it.

"Like you get to tell _me _what I can't do. _Fuck _off, Owl." I can see the flicker of his mouth into a sneer probably not that different from mine, but it's flat again in the next second. The bastard does _not _get to disapprove of my choices, not after the shit he's pulled. He doesn't get to do that pretend-caring, _stupid _bullshit now, when he didn't when it actually _mattered_. I'm an adult, I'm not _his _anymore, and there won't be any of this. Not ever again.

"Looking to put yourself in an early grave?" he asks, stepping to the side, around me, and onto the cigarette, grinding it into the snow. I resist the urge to swallow at how symbolic it feels. I'm not afraid of Bruce, I'm _not_.

"Like I'm going to live long enough to have to be worried about _that_," I spit back. "Our kind don't live that long, remember? Let's just get this done."

I don't have to see his face to know the slight narrowing of his blue eyes that goes along with the downward tilt of one corner of his mouth, I know that look by heart. Like all his other ones. He tilts his head towards the jet in invitation — no, of _course _we wouldn't have met where we need to actually be — and I step forward towards it as he turns.

Suddenly he's _moving_, and I pull the gun out of its holster with my left hand but I'm too close to pull away and he has me by the throat, lips pulled into a snarl and his claws digging into my skin. His right hand closes around my free wrist, dragging it diagonally across my chest and exposing my side as I catch up and press the barrel of the gun to _his_ side. Next to his hip, at his waist but to one side because the armor has to be lighter there so he can move, pointed at an angle so the bullet will tear through at least a couple organs on the way up through his chest. It's a killing shot.

His hand tightens just a little — my snarl mirrors his but he can't _see _it — and I don't pull the trigger because it's not a lethal grip, not yet. I can breathe past it, and his claws might be puncturing my skin but it's barely anything. Scratches at most. If he makes another threatening move I will, but if he's not planning on killing me than I don't want to start it. I'd rather kill Bruce and live to talk about it, not do this suicidal, mutual death bullshit.

"So we're clear," he hisses, in the dangerous, icy tone that would probably work better if I hadn't heard him use it a hundred times as Talon, "I haven't _forgotten_ what you did to Nightingale." His jaw is clenched, and his hand tightens just a little more. I can feel the swell and slide of blood at his claws. "Or to _Talon_."

"Don't bother _threatening_, O," I snarl back at him, pressing the gun hard enough against his side that he'll feel it even through the armor. "We both know _damn _well that you're not one for self-sacrifice, so back the _fuck _off or we both die. _Right _here."

He shifts a little closer, ignoring me completely, and I _itch _to pull the trigger of the gun but I don't. He'll have time to cut my throat if I do that, and I can't survive those kind of injuries. Not alone, and not up here. His hand loosens, but in trade the one on my wrist tightens until I can feel the bones grind together, and I grimace behind my helmet but don't make a _fucking _sound because I will _not _give him that victory.

"This is _our _fight, Hood," he says, "and if you want me dead come after _me_, not them. _They _don't have a part in this."

I laugh in his _fucking _face. "Do you even _listen _to yourself?" I manage to demand, pressing forward into the hand on my throat and _jerking _against the one holding my wrist. "Don't have a part in this'? You're fucking _delusional_, O. Nightingale is _just _as involved in this as you are, and you're even crazier than I thought you were if you think I'm going to let your _precious _new Talon out of the loop." The anger burns _bright _in my chest, making me recklessly fearless and I _know _that but it feels so _good_. "How is _T?_" I ask, and I hope to god Bruce can hear the grin in my voice. "Only been a couple of weeks since I put that _knife _in him, how's he healing up?"

He lets go of my throat and my wrist, jerking back away from me like it's _him _I stabbed, not the replacement. If I didn't know better I'd say the part of his mouth is _shock_, is _pain_, but that can't be right. I'm misreading him, it happens. It especially happens with _Bruce_. As if the bastard would ever feel anything for any one of us but Dick. As if Bruce is actually capable of anything _remotely _resembling love. As if _love _even exists.

He stares at me, and I don't lower the gun but I don't raise it to a better angle either. I can see his hands clench to fists, like he wants to hit me, _hurt _me, and I _pray _for it. Let the son of a bitch come after me, let me numb out the pain and the _sick _twist of my gut with anger and the feeling of flesh and bone under my fists. Let us _hurt _each other until all of this _bullshit _goes away and it's just blood and bruises and the clean black of unconsciousness.

In my head I _beg _for it.

"You're right," he finally says, flatly. "Let's get this done." He turns his back on me in a whirl of metal-lined fabric, and I have never wanted to shoot _anyone _as badly as I do right at that moment. But I don't.

I've got that fatal villain flaw and I _hate _it; I _know _it's there but I can't stop myself from falling for it over and _over _again. Bruce has to _know_. He has to suffer like I did, when I realized I was as disposable as the suit I worked in, and he has to _know _that his death comes from me. He has to see it coming. Shooting him in the back — even if a bullet _would _get through the cape, which it won't — wouldn't be enough, and it wouldn't be any real kind of closure, or revenge. I want to pin him against the floor and put a bullet in his head while he _watches _me.

I flip the safety and shove the gun away, following him back to the jet. He doesn't look at me as he grips the edge of the cockpit and jumps to slide in, so _obviously _practiced and familiar that it looks as smooth as a human's motions can ever get. I sneer, only because he can't see it, and take the second seat. More clambering, less grace. The last time I was in this jet I was about two feet shorter and weighed a lot less, muscle memory just doesn't do it with shit like this. I settle in, throwing the buckle over my chest because at least _that _much is just basic memory. The cockpit's shield slides back over us, and I take a look around at the controls.

It's pretty much the same as how I remember it. Unmarked buttons — it took some _serious _memorization to control any of Bruce's vehicles — and various compartments for a dozen different kinds of weaponry. A flying stash of everything he might need that isn't _really _specialty. Just like the car.

I can feel the slight rumble of the engines — definitely upgraded since I was in here last, they're a lot quieter now — and I watch through the shield as we rise off the rooftop and take off. I can't feel the drag, even though we're moving at about three-quarters the speed I remember Bruce's jets being capable of, which probably means that it's closer to half now.

"So have you told _Dick _about this?" I ask, _bait_, swapping my gaze to the outline of his helmet past the headrest of the chair. What I can see of him doesn't even twitch.

"You know better than to use real names, Hood," he says flatly, and I don't bother holding back the snort.

"Your jets were soundproofed to _everything _last time I was in one, _Bruce_. Don't fuck with me, let's _talk _while we've got the chance." I let my gaze wander until I find a small mirror, low to one side of the cockpit and angled just right for me to see the thin line of Bruce's mouth in the exposed part of his face. Probably for Bruce to watch whoever happens to be back here, but mirrors are a two way street most of the time.

"No, I haven't," he answers grudgingly, with the twist of a sneer for just a second.

I give a short laugh and a _grin_. "He's gonna be _pissed_. How'd he react to the replacement's unfortunate _accident?_" I got to see Bruce's reaction through the surveillance I set up in their _precious _base, after _Tim _called him through a mouthful of his own fucking blood, but it got disabled a long time before Dick showed up. I wish I could have _seen_ how my precious, _perfect _older brother took that.

"I will not provide gratification for you, _Jason_," Bruce nearly _hisses _at me, teeth bared.

"That badly, huh?" I counter, watching the way his jaw clenches with a _whole _lot of satisfaction. "How do you think he's going to take it when he learns about _this _little outing?" Bruce is silent, not rising to or at least not _answering _my taunting, and my grin is so wide it _hurts_. "Alright, just suck the fun out of everything. _Grinch_."

_That _gets a twitch out of him. "_What?_" he asks, almost incredulously.

"You're the _Grinch_," I repeat, as his head tilts just a little to look more squarely at the mirror and back at me. "You show up during Christmas, take the fucking fun out of everything, and drag everyone along on your own twisted little adventure so you can pretend your world still works the way you want it to. You've even got your stupid little dog with its imitation reindeer antlers, following at your heel and letting you do whatever the fuck you want. Even when it gets _hurt_."

I can see one of his hands clench, but his lips curl into a smirk. "Because your Christmas was going to be so eventful." My grin vanishes, the words _hurt_ like a knife to the stomach, and his smirk gets just a little wider. "When this is done _I'm _going to go home for the holiday. To Dick, Tim, and Alfred. For dinner, and gifts; to be with my _family_. Where are _you _going to end up, _Jason?_" I draw a sharp breath in that god _damnit _I know he can hear, my throat locked tight and my hands clenching. "In some _sad _apartment, with _no one _who will care what you do so long as you don't cause them any _trouble? _It sounds _delightful_."

And the knife _twists_.

"_Shut the hell up_," I snarl, and I can't breathe, I can't think, because it _hurts_. I don't _have _a response to that because god _damn _him it's _true_.

"I can hurt you a _lot _worse than you can hurt me, _Jason_," he spits at me, lips in a flat line again. "This is professional, so _keep it that way_. Keep your _fucking _mouth shut."

_Christ, _I can't breathe. I jerk my head away from looking at him and it's a tell but _fuck it _he already knows he hurt me, he already _knows. _One of my hands slides over my stomach just because it hurts so badly it feels like there _has _to be a physical wound, like Bruce shoved a knife in me while I wasn't looking and the words are just icing on the cake.

I've never been more thankful for my helmet, even if I know he can see the tension in my throat and my shoulders, even if I'm in pain and it's _obvious _and _damn _him for being able to do this to me. For once the anger isn't enough, even though it rages in the back of my mind. Shrieking for me to draw my knife and put it through his _fucking _neck for hurting me like this, but I _can't_. I don't want anything more than to curl up and just be allowed to hurt, just _once_. Just _one _time that no one will look down at me for being in pain, where no one will try to fix me.

Or _fuck_, if someone _would_ try and fix me. Don't I deserve something, _anything? _Don't I deserve just a _little _more than this?

"Good," Bruce says, voice back to the icy, dangerous tones. "Now pull yourself together, _Hood_, and stay quiet. I don't want anything from you but muscle."

I can feel the jet settle down, and I ruthlessly, _violently_, shove the emotions away. I don't have _time _for this right now, and I was taught better. I can hold off breaking down until this is over, right? _Right_. I steady myself and unclip the buckle, following the swirl of Bruce's cape out of the jet, sliding down the wing to land on the snow-covered surface of another rooftop. I take a deep breath, _denying _that it's even a little shaky, and unsnap the top of the holster on my gun as I follow him to the entrance of the stairwell.

I can hold together.

* * *

><p>The phone rings in my ear, and I swallow on the other end. The alley wall is hard against my back, and I follow the shadow of the Owlplane as it flies overhead, back off to Gotham and away from Metropolis, away from <em>me<em>.

"_Jason?" _comes the answer, when the ringing stops and there's the click of someone answering.

"Talia," I greet, and _damn _my voice is rough but it doesn't matter right now. "Are you busy tonight?"

There's a brief pause, and I lean my head back against the wall, closing my eyes and trying to breathe evenly. Hours standing at Bruce's side as he negotiated with what turned out to be a large section of the Green Lantern Corp — Hal was noticeably absent — about something to do with Earth being a problem area, and I held together but it was _hard_. I'm millions richer and that at least feels good, but it's overshadowed by all this _bullshit _and all the sickening aches lingering in my stomach and my chest.

Bruce is off to the manor. For dinner and the whole Christmas _thing _with Dick, Alfred, and my replacement. And I…

"_We have guests, but you are more than welcome to join us. You are always welcome."_

"No, I— I'm in Metropolis. You know I can't stand being around heroes anyway. Are you busy _later?_" I sink down the wall, next to where my helmet's sitting on the ground, raising the hand not holding my phone to my ear up to scrub over my face and then back through my hair.

"_Are you alright, Jason?"_ she asks, and my breath catches. I'm _so _fucking far from alright it's ridiculous.

'Yes' hovers on the tip of my tongue, my _automatic _response, but instead I find myself breathing out, "_No_. I— I did a job for Owlman," I head off the rush of questions I can practically _feel _starting, "and I'm _fine_, no fights, but…" My words stick in my throat, and I swallow down the burn of what feels like _fucking _tears.

"_Of __**course **__I'm not busy," _Talia says after a few moments. "_I'll have someone fly you over, do you remember where our Metropolis base is?"_

"Yeah," I answer raggedly, when I can speak again. "I remember." I have to swallow again, have to fight down the shreds of pride I have left, but I manage to whisper, "Thanks, Talia."

"_You're welcome, Jason. I'll see you in a few hours."_

The line clicks off, and I force myself to move. To grab my helmet, to tuck my phone away, to get off the ground and just _move_. Because if I sit still I don't know if I can stay together, and it isn't safe here. It isn't safe there either but it's _better_. I… I think I trust Talia not to hurt me without a reason. If I trust _anyone_, it has to be her, right? She's the one that saved me from Gotham's streets, gave me my memories and my soul back.

If that's not a reason for trust… maybe it's at least close enough.

* * *

><p>I am <em>so sorry<em>. Literally, when I wrote this, I went to my muse (Fox, or as I know her, Kit) and just shouted, "KIT. BRUCE IS BEING MEAN TO JASON." I swear it wasn't intentional (though in Bruce's defense Jason kind of asked for it). I can at least promise a little less angsting tomorrow, though Jason is involved in the prompt so of course there will still be some angsting. The darling just can't go without it. It will get posted up equally late however, as I also have to work all day tomorrow.

So in continuity, this is long before anything except 'Seeing Red and Green', but a couple years after that story. This is the first Christmas after Jason finally ends up back in Gotham after training, wandering, and building a reputation as Red Hood, and reveals that he's alive to Bruce and Dick. (By stabbing Dick. I'll get to that part of the story.) He's waging a pretty active war against Bruce (Damian is not in the picture yet, we'll get to him too), but also maintaining a side job as a mercenary to fund himself. In my head, this actually marks the first (mostly) nonviolent interaction between the two of them. Oh, and that last call is actually my head-canon for how, in this universe, Talia and Jason end up sleeping together that one time. She's legitimately trying to help him, he just doesn't want to be helped (another part that we'll get to XD).

Now I go to drink soda, have a bowl of ice cream, and lounge on my couch to recover. See you all tomorrow!


	8. Auld Lang Syne

So on the eighth (I hate that word, by the way) day of Christmas, my true muse gave to me, '**Jason/Tim, New Years Resolutions**'. Tim, as always, is a delight to write, and Jason is also quite fun. But, I really don't have much to say about this one, otherwise. It was supposed to be much more related to the prompt, but Jason and Tim just kind of wandered off on their own. XD

This has mentions of child abuse, child neglect, violence, some Jason angst, and a lot of Tim and Jason being very nasty to each other.

* * *

><p>I stop short at the second figure on the roof, with one foot braced on the top of the short wall surrounding the flat roof, and my hand closed over the edge, half-crouched. He looks back, finding me in the darkness easily, and I can see the white flash of his teeth.<p>

"There's enough room for two, Jason."

I push fully onto the roof, standing and making my way across the slightly sloped surface to him. His head stays turned, keeping me in his sight — I can barely see the reflection of the light downstairs in his eyes — but he doesn't get up to face me. Kudos to the little bastard for having courage, at least. _I _would have been wary that I was going to stab him again, if the positions were reversed.

"Wasn't expecting anyone else to be up here," I say flatly, sitting down with my legs over the edge, roughly four feet between us. Too much space for either of us to reach out and grab the other, or shove them. It's safer that way.

There's a flush to his cheeks, from the cold, and his nose is a little red at the end, but he eyes me with a blankly studying look. "It seems to be a family thing," he comments, glancing down at the driveway below. The lights from the party are spilling out, like the noise, and I can't help the sneer on my lips.

I didn't remember how much I _hated _this. In some ways it's actually better that I have to hide and not actually get seen here. I'm _dead _after all, can't have a magically resurrected Wayne son at your Christmas Eve party. Doesn't work like that. I don't even know why I'm _here_, apart from the fact that the team's base is pretty much deserted, and the silence was getting to me. At least here there's noise, people, _family_; even if I'm not allowed to interact with them.

I've been watching Alfred work magic in the kitchen for the past two hours.

"Yeah?" I ask, examining the line of his tailored suit. Tim's thin, and outside of the armor-padded and bristling with weapons uniform of Talon, it's really easy to see. I'd call him skin and bones, if I didn't know that he's all muscle in the same way that Dick was when he was that young. I've seen the training videos, even if I wasn't actually around when Dick was Talon.

Besides, Tim hits _hard _and I know it, so what does it matter what he looks like? It's _talent _that matters, not looks, and the replacement's got that at least. I would have killed him on principle if he didn't, not just put my knife in his chest.

Replacement's head tilts a little bit towards me, acknowledgement, but he doesn't look up from the driveway. For once, I think his expression — or _lack_, really — is all him. He's not stealing Dick's smiles, or my snarls, or Bruce's frowns. He's just blank, and it's creepy almost as much as it's… refreshing.

"Dick comes up here when he needs to think, or goes to the top of the Wayne building; the main police station when he's in Bludhaven," _there's _one of the little demon's 'tt' noises, accompanied by a flash of a sneer that's also clearly Damian's, "_moron_."

"Attention whore," I correct, and his gaze flicks to me for just a second. Then he gives a smile somewhere between Bruce's razor thin smirk and Dick's beaming, easy grin.

"True," he agrees. "Damian does a very good impression of a gargoyle, when he's brooding."

"Isn't that all the time?" Tim's mouth flicks in another smile, this one closer to just Dick's, and I snort. "Haven't you got any expressions of your own?" I ask, and wouldn't Bruce be _proud _that it's not even aggressive, just curious. People don't just grow up without facial expressions, and Tim feels more machine than human a lot of the time. Until you see any of the dozen little tics that do actually make him a real person. He's just _adorable _when he's sleeping, and I mean that sarcastically and maybe a little viciously.

He looks all the way over at me, head turning, hands braced easily against the ledge on either side of where he's sitting. He studies me for a second, then gives a shrug I recognize as Dick's evasive one and shakes his head. "Never needed them until here," he explains, and I can feel my eyes narrow.

"What the fuck does that mean?" One brow of his raises — fucking _Alfred _— and I sneer. "Don't you _dare_." His head bows just a little, gaze flicking to the ledge between us as his eyebrow drops again, and holy _fuck _did the replacement actually just do what I told him to? Hot _damn_. Wish I knew how I pulled off _that_ trick.

"Are you aware of my history, Jason?" he asks, and I hold one hand out to catch his attention before digging into my jacket. He follows the movement, but doesn't seem concerned about the fact that I could be going for a weapon. Not that I am.

"Vaguely," I answer, retrieving the packet of cigarettes and flashing it at him before popping it open and grabbing one between my fingers. Alfred won't let me smoke in the house, even with windows open, so the roof it is. It's just a habit, _not _an addiction, thank you very much. "You're the Drake kid, richer than God but not as rich as the Wayne family. Huge mansion, even bigger than this place, and you had both parents until they were killed. Owlman. Bruce adopted you within the week. I did my research. Kinda suspicious, honestly, you could have made at least a little effort to cover it up."

"They had their chance," replacement answers, with a totally flat voice, and I stare at him for a second before reaching in for my lighter.

"You seriously don't care that Bruce murdered your parents?" I admit, it's kind of unbelievable to me. Sure, my parents were… well, _shit_, but if Owlman had come through the window and slaughtered them both I would have been at least a little pissed. Alright, maybe for my mom. I would've cheered while he murdered my bastard father.

"I asked him to." I pause, the hand with the single cigarette buried in my jacket, searching for the lighter, and the carton resting against my leg. No _way_. So the replacement's legitimately a little fucked-up sociopath. Alright, _well then_. His mouth curves in one of Dick's more arrogant smiles, but it vanishes in under a second. "They were parents only as much as that I had their last name. It was nothing more than genetics."

"Blood still means something," I argue, and I can see his eyebrow flicker but he doesn't raise it like I'm pretty sure he wants to.

"Does it, Jason?" he asks, and that's Bruce's tone. The 'don't bullshit me' tone. _Fucker_. "Of all our family, I would think that _you_ would understand that sometimes blood means less than anything else. I simply traded in one absent family for what I was sure would be another."

"You know," I point out, resuming my reach for the lighter, "_normal _people don't do that by murdering their old family." I find it, and palm the piece of metal as I slip the carton back into my jacket in its place.

"What part of our family is _normal?_" the replacement asks with sharp sarcasm, and I snort, fitting the end of the cigarette between my teeth to hold it.

"Fair enough," I manage around it, lighting it with a flick of the lighter — it takes a couple tries in the decent wind, but I get it — before tucking the metal back away. I close my eyes for a second, drawing the smoke into my mouth and holding it there.

"_Smoking_, Jason?" Tim asks, all Dick's sneering disapproval, and I pull the cigarette from my mouth and let the smoke drain back out. It doesn't look that different from normal breath, since it's so cold.

"Fuck off, replacement." I don't say it with as much aggression as I usually would. I so _hate _this night, and I don't have the energy to spare to snap and spar with my replacement like usual. "Not tonight. If you have to bitch at me do it tomorrow, or better yet just _don't_. I don't want to hear it."

"Very well," Tim consents, after a second of silence. "I will keep silent about your habits. You're aware that Dick is going to be very displeased when he finds out?"

"I'll deal with it when it happens," I answer shortly. "Why are _you _up here, replacement? You said Dick and the little demon's reasons, what about you?"

His eyes — a clearer, paler blue than any of the rest of us — flick towards the cigarette, and then down towards the driveway again. "Trade?" he offers. "My reason for yours?" I shrug and nod, taking another drag of smoke.

"Sure. Why not?" The little bastard should know why I'm up here anyway, I really shouldn't _have _to tell him. I did my research, so I know the replacement does his too. Plus, the little shit's got access to Bruce's computer, which as much as I hate it has pretty much everything you could ever want to know about me. Probably even a few things that I barely even know. Bruce tends to be damn scary like that, and honestly Tim's not that far behind him.

Damian, the _demon _brat, might be Bruce's actual son — and he waves that fact around like it's a _fucking _flag; makes me want to shoot him again — but Tim's the closest to him. I guess we've all got different parts of Bruce, now that I think about it. Tim's got his mind, Dick's the leader, Damian's about as obviously scary, and I'm the strongest. Put all of us together and we'd actually measure up to him. As it is we're just pieces; I don't know what the _fuck_ we'll do when Bruce dies.

Because he will. If I know _anything_, I know that we're all mortal at the end of the day. Someday I'll die, and Dick will die, and Bruce will die, and there's nothing any of us can do about that. The ways to extend life… They aren't worth it.

"I dislike crowds of apparent civilians," Tim says, dragging my attention back to him. "I am unaccustomed to them, and they make me paranoid. It's one of several faults I'm attempting to train out of myself, so this is a brief break before I return myself into the social dynamics of downstairs."

I study him, putting together the pieces in my head. "So you're up here 'cause what? Your parents were neglectful shits and you can't handle _talking _to people?"

His eyes narrow and I recognize my own sneer staring back at me, so _damn _him I mirror it right back. "As your father was an abusive drunk who made you _afraid _to care for anyone, _Todd?_"

My free hand snaps to my knife — against my back, because even in regular clothes I don't let this out of my _sight_ — and I see his hand slide upwards with metal glinting between his fingers. "Don't pretend you fucking know me, _rich boy_."

"Don't pretend you know _me _either, street rat," Tim hisses back. "Bruce may have made us family but you're not my brother, and I haven't _forgotten _what you did to me or _forgiven _it. When I've repaid that, _then _I'll consider if you're worth my attention."

I draw the knife, he stares me down fearlessly, and after a second where I want nothing more than to _gut _him I snarl wordlessly and fling my knife to the side, onto the rooftop where it skids across the faint layer of gravel. I shove myself to standing, dropping the cigarette to the roof and stepping down on it as I jump down, turning to Tim. I throw my arms out and _sneer _at him as he swivels on the ledge to look at me, crouched more than sitting and knife obvious between the fingers of his left hand.

"Take your best _fucking _shot," I dare him, hands clenching for a second. "If you're going to stab me just get it over with you little _bastard_, 'cause there's no way in _hell _I'm watching over my shoulder for you until you _feel _like finishing this. You've got the opening, _take it_."

He slips off the wall with all the grace of a Talon, blue eyes narrowed and hand loose around the knife, his grip is _easy_. I know that look, I know that _fucking _hunting walk, and if he thinks he can scare me be acting like what _I _once was he's _dead _wrong. I know all of Talon's tricks, it's not going to do a damn thing to me.

"You stabbed me three times," he hisses, head lowered a little bit to stare up at me as he paces. Slow, unhurried, with the advantage but all I do is flash him one of my sharper grins.

"I beat the _shit _out of you three times, yeah. How does that make you _feel_, T? I'm the guy who _died _as Talon and I can still kick your ass."

"You ambushed me," he answers, ignoring the question, and I bark out a laugh and don't let my grin fall.

"_Once_, replacement. You can't _ambush _someone on patrol, it's your own damn fault that I got the drop on you, _twice_. Yeah, I'll take the fall for the first time because you know what? You're right. I drugged your _precious _team, and I disabled all that _precious _security, and I ambushed you while you were working late and I beat the _shit _out of you." I make my grin more vicious, add a narrowing of my eyes and a tilt of my head as I turn with him, keeping myself angled at him and my arms spread wide. _Daring_. "And it felt _good_," I say with a laugh. "Proving that the little _shit _that took my place wasn't _half _what I was. Putting my knife in your side felt _good_, replacement."

He stops, still mimicking the narrowed eyes and slight sneer that are _mine_, little imitation _bastard_. "You have no _idea _what I'm capable of, Jason." His sneer gets just a little bigger, and if his mask were on it would just be _perfect_ but it's not, so I can see the _lack _of that sneer in his eyes. He _can't _mimic me, not fully. "You have no idea who I am," he spits, and I force out another harsh laugh.

"And you don't know me either, we've been _over _this shit. Stop fucking around and take your damn shot before I get tired of waiting for it and throw you off the damn roof, Tim."

His face sharply closes off, back to the eery blankness, and then he abruptly snaps, "Then let's learn."

I blink, dropping my arms and staring at the little fuck. "What the hell are you talking about?" I demand, glancing briefly at the knife in his hand as he straightens up a little bit, out of the hunting slide that all the Talons, current or former, know.

"You don't know me, and I don't know you," he repeats, gaze flicking over me. "So let's learn, Jason. I might find you irritating, arrogant, and a complete _fool_ at times, but at the end of the night you'll still be an Owl. At some point we'll _have_ to settle this, and the likelihood that things will _ever_ be quiet enough that Bruce won't mind me taking you out of play is absurdly low."

"As if you're afraid of Bruce," I spit at him, not turning to go get my knife — even though I can see it out of the corner of my eye — because I really don't trust the replacement not to put that blade between my shoulder blades the second I turn my back on him. Also, the hypocritical _fuck_ that is the Jokester left me with a few new paranoias, and people at my back is one of them.

Tim's head tilts, back to studying. "True. But Alfred would be disappointed, and Dick wouldn't appreciate me hurting what's his."

"Yeah, those are better people to be afraid of," I agree, "but that's _bullshit_ and we both know it. There's not a damn person in the house that would criticize you openly if you put a knife in me, not after what I did. Tell me the real reason, replacement."

"Do you have a problem with not being stabbed, Jason?" he asks dryly, and I bare my teeth for a second in a snarl.

"No, but I don't appreciate being _lied_ to."

A smile that doesn't reach his eyes and Tim flings the knife to embed itself between my feet, and I feel just a little proud that I didn't flinch, not even automatically. "I don't have any interest in looking over _my_ shoulder either. You owe me, but I won't take it in blood. That would invite this distrust between us to continue, I'd rather it be ended."

"Then how?" I ask, and he let's the smile drop. He looks like a damn ghost in that suit, or a reaper. All angles and the not-quite-right build of a kid that hasn't filled in yet.

"Question and answer," he proposes, and I snort.

"You want to do a damn share and tell session? _Really_, replacement?"

"You already owe me an answer," he points out, fitting his hands into the pockets of the black suit. "We had a deal, remember? I told you why I was up here, it's your turn. After that," he flashes one of Dick's scarier smiles, the bright, cheerful ones that promise there will be murder before too long, "you stabbed me three times, so you owe me three answers. Standard trade of questions after that; you can even go first, _Jason_."

Oh, _damn_ him. He's at least right that I owe him the one answer, but I don't know about all the rest of that. I think I might prefer a nice clean stabbing over whatever kind of questions the replacement can dream up, but it's not like I've really got the high ground here, or even an advantage. I _am_ sick of having to watch my back around the people I'm supposed to be able to trust, he's got a point there.

"Fine," I agree. I lean down, jerking his knife — small, but good quality and sharp; good to store in civilian clothes — out of the ground and throwing it to him in an underhanded toss. He snatches it smoothly out of the air as I cross the roof to grab mine, shoving it back in the sheath at the small of my back. Tim's only behind me and out of my sight for a second, but it still freaks out a large part of me that doesn't calm down until I turn and can see him again.

"Care to sit?" the replacement asks, already stepping away to settle his back against the low wall, like he knows I'm going to answer yes.

I snarl because I can't help myself, but then I head for a seat next to him. Not too close, about three feet separating us, but close enough it doesn't quite feel safe anymore. What a fucking joke, like being around any Owl is ever safe. We're _trained_ to be deadly at a second's notice, we're _never_ safe. At least I know that; forewarned is forearmed or some shit like that, right?

Alright, little _fucker_. He'll get his answers.

"I'm dead," I say flatly, knees drawn up and my arms crossed over them, not hanging my head only because I don't trust the replacement that much. "I can't be down at the party, and I got bored watching Alfred cook and clean. So I'm up here."

"You have other places you could be," he comments, "you didn't have to come out here at all."

"Suck it, replacement. You asked why I was on the roof, not why I'm at the manor, and I told you. I'm up here because I can't be down there. Ask your damn three questions so we can get this over with."

Tim's eyes narrow, and I don't know if it's a good thing or bad that I can feel the verbal strike coming before his mouth ever even opens. At least it gives me a second to brace myself. "How did your return to life work?"

Well that's… Well, it's not as bad as it could have been. It's a wasted question for him too, which brings a grin to my face. "I don't know," I tell him, vindictively but totally honestly. "I've got no idea what brought me back to life, and neither does anyone else." I can't help adding, "Did a _shit_ job of it though."

"How so?" the replacement asks, that's _two_, and I let my grin get a little nastier to make up for the sharp sting in my chest at the memory. If it affects the bastard, at all, he doesn't show it. Which makes me think that I'm not fooling him.

"Didn't heal me all the way, didn't restore my memories or my soul — if you even want to call it that — didn't bother to even get me above ground first. That doesn't sound like a shit job to you?" I snort and glance across the rooftop, _feeling_ replacement's gaze drilling into the side of my head but whatever, fuck him. Whatever else we are, Owls aren't liars when it matters. We don't break deals to each other. Usually. "I wasn't really alive until Talia dumped me in the Lazarus pit, and I got back the memories of digging out of my own damn grave before living on the streets for _months_. Whatever the fuck came back, it wasn't me."

"Sounds unpleasant," Tim comments.

"No _shit_," I snap back, with a bark of laughter. - "Great master of the obvious, aren't you?" I long for another cigarette, just to have something to _do _with my hands, but fight the urge down. I'm not addicted to them, and I won't _become _addicted to them either. I'm not going to be a fucking stress smoker, _so _not down for that shit. "Ask your last question, replacement," I demand, not looking at him.

"Because of your death, and resurrection," Tim starts, "what new phobias or fears do you have?"

I drag in a breath, staring at the scattered gravel, and I clench my eyes shut for a second. Mistake, of _course_, because the second that I close them there's _green _and a laugh that echoes _sharply _in the back of my head, and I can't do anything but snap them back open and tilt my head back, up at the sky. Just to remind myself it's not the dark wood of my coffin or the shadowed grey of the warehouse's metal roof.

"_Fuck _you too," I manage, and a laugh crawls its way out of my throat that sounds dark and nearly _broken _even to my ears. God _damn _it. He waits, silent, and I don't look at him when I ask, "Why the fuck do you want to know?"

"Does it matter? That's my question, Jason, and you agreed to this."

Yeah, I _did_.

I force myself to take another breath, taking comfort in the wind against my skin and the press of the leather sheath against my low back that holds my knife. "Fine." I clench one hand, keeping my eyes open to stare up at the sky, trusting the press of the stone wall at my back. "Claustrophobia is the only official one," I answer grudgingly. "Tight spaces, or dark ones, freak me out pretty bad. I don't like people at my back, or silence, and I'm not real fond of green anymore." I think for a second, and then snort and shake my head. "And sex. I don't play the bottom anymore. There's your damn list, bastard."

It's quiet for a few seconds — and I realize that I can't even hear Tim's breathing under the wind, that he's _silent _in a genuinely creepy way — before he speaks, softly. "Is it the being at a disadvantage?" For once, the tone isn't one that I recognize from our family. No one in our family speaks that softly; or at least they never did to me.

"I won't ever put myself at anyone's mercy again," I answer sharply, finally looking down at him with a snarl that I _know _is defensive more than it's threatening. "Not _ever_. And fuck _anyone _who tries to put me there."

Tim's head tilts a little bit to one side as he studies me, and _damn _the little bastard for making me show off all my weaknesses like that. _Fuck _him. "When Bruce and Dick brought you back here—?"

"Yeah," I snap, cutting him off. "Tying me up, throwing me in the damn trunk, and dragging me back here was probably the worst fucking way they could have done it. Captain obvious scores again." I fight down the urge, again, to reach for another cigarette. I've let myself fall to a lot of lows, but that's not going to be one of them. That'd just be the nail in the coffin, wouldn't it? And you know what? _Damn _that saying, too. "It doesn't matter," I force out, looking away. "They didn't know, and we were enemies so it's not like I deserved anything else."

There's a sharp cheer from below that makes me flinch, and Tim turns to look over the edge of the ledge. "I should rejoin the party," he says idly, getting to his feet and brushing dirt and stray bits of gravel off his suit. I follow him with my gaze, but I don't move. I'm not going anywhere, not right now. He steps away, pauses, and then turns back to me. His face is back to blank, and I raise an eyebrow and sneer.

"What do you want, replacement?" I ask sharply. I just want to be left alone — or I _don't_, because god I don't want to be alone tonight, not for another year — to swallow down all of my nightmares and beat them back out of my head. To have _some _kind of peace.

He stays silent for a second, then bows his head just a little bit — gaze flicking to the ground in what I swear to god looks like _respect_ — before meeting my eyes again. "As a child, there were months I didn't see or speak with anyone but the servants and my tutors. Both groups were paid to be there, and none were interested enough in me to interact any more than was necessary to do their jobs. I could, and did, leave for whole days without anyone noticing or caring." I stare at Tim, and he gives a tiny quirk of his lip that's… Is that _mine?_ "My lack of normal social interaction is something most people would find completely off putting, so I choose to show them what they want to see, or what I know will make them most likely to give me what I want. Things are easier that way."

When I realize he's not going to keep talking I swallow, eyeing him. I usually don't trust when people just dump information on me, especially when it's sensitive or potentially damaging to them. It just reeks of a _trap_. "Why are you telling me any of this?" I ask, warily, and this time I recognize the smile as one of Bruce's smirks.

"Our deal aside, you didn't _have _to tell me anything, Jason. I'll keep your secrets between us, and if you never give me a reason I'll never use them against you. We're both Owls, after all."

"So, what?" I ask with a snort. "_Now _I'm family? What do you want, to get together and trade New Years resolutions like 'I probably won't stab Tim again'?"

His mouth flickers in another smile, and he gives a laugh pulled straight out of Dick's repertoire. "Something like that." He gives a tiny shake of his head and lets the smile drop away. "Maybe it's just that I know that you're aware of what being alone feels like, Jason. Dick? Damian? They don't." He inclines his head again, and then turns and heads across the roof, calling over his shoulder, "Welcome back to the family."

He's gone — over the edge and through a window, probably — before I work far enough past the knot in my throat to whisper a soft, "Thanks."

* * *

><p>Would you believe me if I told you this was where I was working towards the whole time? Because that's actually true. XD That last ending bit was my original idea for this, and then Jason and Tim just kept having more to talk about until finally it got where I meant it to. And of course, you get more Jason angst because the poor darling can't do anything without having to angst a bit. Also, have some Tim... well, Tim doesn't angst. Some kind of mildly creepy 'my past wasn't pleasant either'?<p>

Also, by the way, this is fairly accurate to the canon-Tim backstory, as well. Tim's parents were pretty much high-socialite people who traveled all the time, and were rarely home. This is what let Tim run around stalking Batman and Robin for years with no one noticing. Except that Tim's parents in the canon universe are still alive (in witness protection), at least in New 52. Before New 52 Janet died to poison, and Jack was killed by Captain Boomerang. Obviously, canon-Tim didn't ask Batman to murder his parents. XD

In continuity, this falls after 'You're a Mean One', years later, and the year before 'Trading Gifts'. Jason's made up with the Owl-family (sorta), or at least they're not fighting anymore, but clearly things aren't actually fixed yet, and 'Red Hood' isn't officially working for the Owls at this point.

See you tomorrow!


	9. The Stroke of Midnight

So on the ninth day of Christmas, my true muse gave to me, nine ladies dancing- No, wait. That's the song. Ah, right! '**Bruce/The Roost, Secret Santa**'. Yeah, the _Owls _playing Secret Santa with each other. It is absolutely as ridiculous as it sounds.

So this contains... oh. Well, actually, there are no warnings for this. It's just good natured silliness, for the most part. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>It feels more like a war gathering than dinner, but then again that's true of nearly all of our dinners. When you actually get all four of my sons, and me, seated around a table it always tends to be more like some kind of mob meeting than a real family dynamic. You can say the exact opposite about my meetings with the other Crime Syndicate founding members. Managing them is as close as I can imagine what herding cats must feel like, and I stopped considering my so-called allies to be useful in meetings a long time ago. I'm actually vaguely curious at what point I started expecting my children to act like my allies, and my allies to act like my children.<p>

Something about that isn't right.

I give Alfred a thankful nod as he sweeps around the table, collecting empty dishes and leaving behind each person's drink of choice. Beer for Jason and Dick, an energy drink with an obnoxiously bright label for Tim, a cup of tea for Damian — that one is both Talia and Alfred's influence — and of course, my coffee. I don't know how I ever functioned without coffee in my life.

Ah, right. I was twenty and didn't have four sons. _That's_ how.

God, I'm getting old.

"Alright, are we all prepared to discuss terms?" Dick asks with a smile, sitting to my right. Jason, at my left, rolls his eyes.

It _is_ mildly strange having all four of them here, without masks or costumes and gathered around a table. I don't think I'll ever get used to all of my sons actually being alive, not trying to kill each other, and not scattered across at least three different cities. I think that's always going to feel a bit strange. Good, though. It's undeniably good to be at peace with all of my family again, and have them at peace with each other. That's something that I'll never take for granted again, not after Jason.

But honestly this peace probably won't last too much longer. Not after _this_.

"You make it sound like we're negotiating some kind of coup or something," Jason says, with a small sneer because even though he isn't actively trying to kill us all, and even though he's one of us again, Jason always has an edge to him. He's blatantly aggressive, it's just how he is.

As an aside, heaven help me if my sons ever _do_ decide to stage a coup. I would never survive, they're all too well trained for that. My fault, definitely, with the exceptions of some of Jason and Damian's skills. For those, I blame Talia.

"As if we would ever turn on father," Damian says, with a sneer that even manages to one-up Jason's, which isn't an easy thing to do. I feel just a bit better, but stay silent as I raise the coffee to my mouth. I am here as an observer and officiate, nothing more. I won't be pulled into this like I have the years before. I _won't_.

Alfred comes back from the kitchen to do a second round of clearing dishes.

"Speak for yourself, demon brat," Jason says with a grin, and I glance over at Damian, sitting next to Dick on my right, to make sure he's not going to rise to the obvious bait. He glares — there's _one _thing Damian doesn't have over Jason; Jason's glares are definitely more intimidating to anyone outside the family — but only crosses his arms. I bite back a sigh as I see the glint of a small blade between his fingers.

"No weapons at the table," I remind them, keeping the cup of coffee in one hand as I pull the tablet between Dick and I closer to me, tapping into a few documents so I can skim them over. Damian makes one of his irritated 'tt'ing noises, but doesn't argue. The blade vanishes, tucked away somewhere into his clothing.

I won't try and fix it any more than that. Asking Damian to discard his knife would mean I'd have to ask _everyone _to, and that… Well, that just doesn't go well. Ever. I can probably trust my boys not to stab each other over the dinner table, for fear of Alfred if not of me. How is it that the four of them are more concerned over the butler's opinion — former MI6 or not — than mine? Alfred might be part of the family in everything but name, but it still doesn't make much sense. It's a good thing I gave up trying to make sense of my boys habits years ago.

"We're ready," Tim answers from the seat next to Jason, because Jason and Damian sitting next to each other was done all of once. Not _ever _again will that happen, for the sake of the house as well as the physical health of both of them.

"Then it's time for Secret Santa." Dick's smile is nearly blindingly bright — the fact he's so excited actually concerns me a bit — and he completely ignores me as he leans forward onto the table. "Are we all clear on the rules?"

I watch over my coffee as my sons exchange glances and reactions. Jason scoffs and leans back in his chair, Tim rolls his eyes, Damian's gaze shifts evasively sideways, and Dick — the ringleader, naturally — puts his chin in both hands and _beams_ around the table at them.

"Yes," Tim finally says — since somehow Tim always ends up nominated as speaker for my two less verbally inclined sons — for the table, with equal parts condescension and grudging acceptance. "Just tell us the differences from last year, Dick."

"Let's go over them anyway, alright?" Dick says brightly, completely ignoring Tim and not waiting for an answer before he continues. "The basics are that each person will receive a random name of another family member and buy a gift for them. We'll have a week to secure a gift, as well as keep both the contents and the giver a secret. The receiver has the next week to figure out who is giving them the gift and what it is; partial knowledge, partial credit." Dick turns to me, and I meet his gaze with a little bit of reluctance, not setting down the shield that is my coffee. "Bruce, would you outline the restrictions, please?"

I bite back a sigh, take another sip of coffee, then set the cup down and raise my gaze to the rest of the table.

"No opening the gift, no telepaths, no time travel, no magic or magic items, and no removing the gift from under the tree. The gift _must_ be under the tree, as well as in the box, and no, the box may not hold any kind of portal or anything else to where the gift is stored. That doesn't count." I focus on my youngest, narrowing my eyes just a touch. He doesn't react. "_Damian_, as of this year there's no moving the tree, or the house, or anything else for the purpose of moving the gift." I swap over to Tim, who is equally unphased by my look. "_Tim_, it is now against the rules to cripple or injure any family member, on purpose — _Alfred will know_ — to prevent them participating, _including_ yourself. Incapacitating any family member, again _including_ yourself, in any way that is inescapable or renders them unconscious for a period of longer than half an hour — _total_, repeated unconsciousness _counts_ — is _also_ against the rules."

I take in a measured breath and remind myself that this is training. It's a _training_ exercise with a little healthy competition to speed things along, and it encourages my sons to participate in the holiday in a way that's at least usually not bloody. It's just _training_, I _swear_. Even Alfred agreed that this is a more constructive use of the time, and that it doesn't do too much damage, though after the last few years I've been tempted to call it off.

Last year Damian relocated the entire manor to a different dimension. The year before, Dick _sold_ Damian back to his mother in exchange for information from Jason. _Sold _him. I don't even want to remember what Tim's done over the years. At least Jason's methods tend to just be violent, and not insane or generally mentally harming to his brothers. It's a sad day when the person I'm _least _worried about is Jason.

I hope to god none of the Crime Syndicate ever finds out about this.

"Alfred will be passing out your assignments," I continue, "as well as an updated copy of the rule book." I suppose it is to my son's credit that they are creative, and _vicious_, enough that something as relatively simple as this requires a twelve page rulebook. In an eight-point font size. It gets updated every year, because _inevitably _one of them will figure out a way to circumvent the rules to win. "Ignorance of the rules doesn't matter, if you break any of them you'll be immediately disqualified from winning the exercise, but not removed from it. Disqualification also earns you some kind of discipline, to be decided and enforced by Alfred. It won't be pleasant."

I pick up the cup and drain the last of the coffee before speaking over the empty cup. "This starts at midnight, and the second week ends at midnight on Christmas Eve. There will be _no tampering with time_. Don't get on the news in any way that might damage our reputation, and _try _to do the same in your interactions with the rest of the Crime Syndicate, its subordinates, heroes, and anyone else." Outlawing outside help, or use, is pointless. After all, Clark's boy Kon-El is very nearly Tim's personal assistant and bodyguard. Asking Tim not to use his capabilities would be removing a tool of great usefulness — and strength — that my second youngest son has spent years developing and honing.

That is how I choose to see their relationship, and no one will convince me otherwise without hard proof.

"Is everyone clear?" I ask. I see Alfred reemerge from the kitchen out of the corner of my eye, a stack of binders in his hand.

He circles the table, laying one of the black, basic binders — tied shut with black ribbon — in front of each of my sons before smoothly dropping the last in front of me with a very thin smile, standing at my elbow between Dick and me. I stare at it for a second, as the rest of my sons collect theirs, none going to untie them just yet. They know better, and even though one of the rules is that no information obtained before the exercise starts is valid that doesn't mean that it's safe to flash it around.

"Alfred," I start slowly, looking up at him, "I'm not participating this year."

Four pairs of blue eyes in varying shades snap up to stare at me, and Alfred makes an absolutely _masterfully _fake disappointed look. Like he _didn't know_; I told him _weeks_ ago. "Oh, Master Bruce, I can rework all of the binders but that's quite a bit of work, and midnight is only a few hours away. Are you sure you won't participate, sir?" _Liar_.

I make the mistake of glancing at my sons — Jason has that _look_ he gets when people disappoint him; the 'why did I expect anything?' one that always manages to make even me feel a bit guilty — and the resolve I'd so carefully built up to _not_ be a part of the madness this year crumbles apart. I care for my sons, I really do, but that comes with the glaring weakness where they're also the only ones who can manipulate me like this. I don't think _any _of them was even slightly surprised that I was intending on not taking part this year.

I'm _proud_ of them, but sometimes I wish I hadn't trained them to act so well.

"Father?" Damian asks, with the absolute _perfect _tone of disappointment and hope, just the _faintest _crack to his voice. Like my youngest would ever actually speak that way for anything but a genuine trauma.

Still, it gets to me. The flaws of parenthood, I suppose. I gained four loyal killers, but I made myself loyal to them as well. Strength always comes at the price of some kind of vulnerability.

"Very well, Alfred," I agree, holding back yet another sigh as well as smoothing out my voice so it doesn't hold a trace of the resignation. Next year, I will _not_ be roped into this. I _won't_.

Jason and Dick trade, respectively, a grin and a smile as I reach for the binder, and Alfred gives a faintly smug smirk that I pretend I don't see. "It is approximately," Alfred raises his arm, to check his watch. "Seventeen minutes until 9PM. Please recall that while the rules are still in place, no information gained before the stroke of midnight is considered valid, and any attempt to gain such information will result in disqualification. Now, just a moment, sirs. I'll fetch the dessert course."

Things go smoothly, naturally. Dessert finishes, and then my sons scatter with binders in hand. I know that by the time it's midnight, none of them will be within a state of each other. Jason, Dick, and Damian will all find the most deserted piece of land they can. Tim, on the other hand, will take a jet direct to his mountain base, because not only will Kon-El be there but it's also very nearly his fortification. I know that as soon as the clock chimes, I'll lose every bit of surveillance I have in that base.

Well, that goes both ways.

I watch the clock count down, my fingers idle on the remote control in my hand, a simple USB drive in the other. Of course, the best resource for all of this will be my computer. Normally, that's something I can't lock my sons out of without some very serious effort. However, there are emergency protocols in place, and I memorized the code I need to make sure none of them can hack in until I'm ready for them to. Even Tim will need to dedicate a sizable chunk of time — weeks he doesn't have — to hack this. I know that, because I tested how long it took _me _to do it.

The clock beeps the alarm; midnight.

I hit the button of the remote control and immediately all power in Gotham — barring remote generators and such — clicks off. That includes everything I have, but that's no problem.

I activate the night filter on my helmet, plug the USB in to start up my computer on full lockdown, and open the binder. My lips curl in a smirk that no one will ever see, and I toss the binder to the floor and set it aflame with a flick of one of my disposable sparking lighters.

Dick won't know what hit him.

* * *

><p>Silliness indeed. XD I started this by writing 'no telepaths, and no opening the gift', and then I realized these were Owls and there were <em>so many ways <em>they could get around standard gift security. Especially time travel. Man, the things they could do with time travel. There's a reason Bruce enforced that particular restriction twice. I'm not even going to consider which one of them might have done that, and what kind of disaster it became. (Tim. It was totally Tim.)

Also, it's not clear, but the way this game works in my head is as such: The goal is figuring out who gave you the gift, and what the gift is, before you open it on Christmas. Every person who knows one of those things gets a reward from Bruce, every person who knows both gets a reward from Alfred. If you are the only person with both items of knowledge, you get one reward from Alfred for every other participant in addition to the standard one. So you hunt down your answers, while simultaneously trying to keep anyone else from learning anything they need to know.

Bruce is totally right. It's a training exercise. XD

So in continuity, this actually comes after 'Holiday Spirit' and 'Home For Christmas'. It's the year after that, and herein we have the most obvious sign that I've been making these up off the top of my head. Ignore the fact that there is no mention of this game before this story, even though it is supposedly happening _during _'Home For Christmas' and 'Holiday Spirit' (Damian is relocating the house to a different dimension), as well as it being the last day of the game during 'Christmas Desserts' and 'Waiting for the Hoofbeats' (the year where Jason traded Dick information of some kind in exchange for Dick selling Damian back to Talia). I can only explain this by saying that in the latter three they're around other people who aren't Owls and therefore wouldn't be talking about it, and during 'Home For Christmas'... yeah, I got no explanation there.

I'll see you tomorrow!


	10. Gifts Not Wanted

So on the tenth day of Christmas, my true muse gave to me, '**Dick/Tim, UNWRAP THE PRESENT**'. Yes, she did put it all in caps. And while she was making this list she thought of the prompt, told me about it, and then declared she was going to put it on the worst possible pair of characters she could. I am really, really, glad she did. XD

This contains established Dick/Jason, and brief mentions of Dick/Tim and Jason/Tim (none that occurs). It's also got referenced voyeurism, masochism, exhibitionism, and one character (guess who) with OCPD. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>"Hey, Tim."<p>

I refrain from getting up from my position on the couch and running, as all experience dictates that I should. Instead I carefully check to make sure I'm not showing any of my immediate wariness, and turn my head to get a slightly better angle on my oldest 'brother'. He's behind me, as Dick chooses to be nearly all the time, when given the option, in his interactions with everyone but Jason. Considering my new understanding of the Talon who came before me, after my very nearly violent talk with him last night, that means that Dick must have figured out or been told Jason's new trigger points a while ago.

Usually, Dick only chooses to inflict _physical_ pain on the people that he claims to care about; more accurately called the people that he's claimed. That includes Jason, therefore Dick has and will avoid causing any emotional or psychological damage if at all possible. He prefers his toys when they're not broken.

I don't react when Dick's arms wind over the back of the couch and then my shoulders, looping loosely around the front of my chest and, consequently, my throat. I'm not concerned; in a lot of ways Dick is even more predictable than Jason — the influence of the Lazarus Pit, the bursts of anger and something close to insanity, made predicting Jason a difficult thing at times — and Dick doesn't go after family. It doesn't matter what physical moves he makes, threatening or seducing, Dick won't do anything to cross the boundaries of his own sense of morals without my permission or at least lack of argument.

"Can I help you, Dick?" I ask calmly, not pausing the work I have open on my laptop. For Dick, the saying 'give an inch and he'll take a mile' is completely accurate. Giving anything but cursory attention, especially pausing my work, would invite him to take the laptop and monopolize my focus for himself.

"I want to make a deal," he purrs into my ear, not quite touching but more than close enough to feel dangerous. Even knowing that Dick wouldn't harm me without the lack of another option, having his teeth this close to my skin doesn't feel safe in the slightest.

"Outline your terms," I say simply, finishing the last touches of one piece of code and closing it down, starting work on a second.

Making deals with any of my family is generally a profitable encounter, if a tricky one. Loopholes are a part of the game, but the rewards can be extremely lucrative or useful. We are all aware of what is valuable, especially to each other and money, naturally, isn't, so these trades are all about information and favors. I've gotten some very useful information from Dick before; he has a knack for that as well as a knack for getting people to do what he wants them to. All around, Dick is generally a good trade partner.

Of course, I'm not the only one who Dick makes deals with, which means I have a rather automatic response of wariness to his presence. His teasing, light nature aside, I'm not the correct level of idiot to believe that just because he jokes instead of being threatening, Dick's not dangerous. Perhaps it's because I knew him as Talon, and then as Nightingale, a long time before I ever met him as Dick; though I made the connection years earlier. Besides, from what I understand — and I was no exception — Dick's method of greeting each new Talon is a rather violent trial to see what they're made of. I haven't watched Jason's trial at Dick's hands yet, though I'm sure it's recorded somewhere in our archives, but I believe I put up a decent fight for not being naturally combat oriented.

Dick's hands flatten over my chest and slide down, wrinkling my shirt, but I shut down any kind of reaction to the touch without a problem. "I want _you_," Dick says, this time actually grazing his teeth against the shell of my ear, "and in payment I won't make the deal I just offered to Jason, where I show him one of your weaknesses."

Hmm... That could be troublesome. Then again, I did just discover all of _Jason's_ new weaknesses. I can probably stand for him to know one of mine, since I'll still be far ahead in terms of preparation. Dick will have to do a lot better than that to make me sell myself in payment.

I pause my work, turning my head a bit further towards Dick until I can see his eyes and his smile, his lips only a few fractions of an inch away from the skin of my cheek. I summon the same smile to my own lips, my eyes narrowing just a little bit, and I lower my voice to a soft whisper to speak.

"You're not my type, Dick."

Dick gives a clear laugh, breath warm against my skin and obviously not in the least bit offended. "Someday I will be," he promises, and leans just a little closer to press a totally chaste, nearly _brotherly_ kiss to my cheek before he straightens up and away from me. Of course, his hands still slide up my chest in what any sane person would call molestation, but in this house is more just a fact of life. So long as Dick isn't grabbing anything he shouldn't be, I don't care.

I return my attention to my computer, unable to hear Dick moving but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. Dick is an Owl, after all, and we're known for our stealth. Damian is the quietest of us, by virtue of his size, although Jason is actually surprisingly silent when he wants to be, considering his height and his general choice of combat boots as footwear, and I'm somewhere in the middle of all of us. We haven't had that competition, yet.

Actually, now that I consider it, Jason's stealth follows the same pattern as many of his other skills and traits. Good, _excellent_ even, but only if he has the motivation to really utilize all of his talent. If Jason really has an obvious fault, it's that he doesn't use all of his skill unless he's driven into it or has a good reason to. It's also what makes him a formidable enemy. You could spend months watching him fight and never know how good he really was until you pissed him off; I made that mistake.

I thought Jason was just a half-decent fighter. That he'd used surprise to gut Dick, and escaped Bruce's wrath by the skin of his teeth. Until he came after me.

True, the first time was an actual ambush. I didn't hear a thing until he was on me, and the first strike to the back of the head kept me dizzy and off balance enough that I didn't even give Jason a challenge. He took me apart with ease. After that I thought I knew what he was capable of, but the next two times we fought he did nearly the same thing. I thought I was matching him, or at least exploiting what I knew of the flaws in his combat style, but then he recovered and came back faster, with more precision and a _flow _of movement that was nearly Bruce's equal. I'm still not entirely certain that I know what he's really capable of.

His fight with Bruce, the _real _one, was off the grid and away from any surveillance. All I know is that Jason was dragged back, bruised and bleeding, and that Bruce looked equally battered although there was more damage to the suit and less to him. Bruce won, and Dick stepped between them because Jason is, in the end, _his_. Also, Jason is family. Perhaps I'm only starting to get to know him, but he's an Owl. That makes him part of my family.

I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, and both Jason and Dick circle around the couch in front of me. I watch them, inwardly wary, as Jason drops himself into one of the armchairs that's angled inwards, at the couch more so than the TV against the wall in front of me, and Dick sits down on the opposite side of the coffee table my feet are resting on and sets a rather large basket full of wrapped gifts — in varying sizes, colors, and professional levels of wrapping — on the table.

He looks up at me, grinning, and I glance at Jason. Jason looks a little disbelieving, arms crossed over his chest, but he meets my gaze for a moment before giving a small shrug and looking down at Dick, who's settling himself into a cross-legged position on the floor in front of the gifts.

Ah, this must be that deal. I wonder what Jason gave Dick in exchange for this apparent 'weakness' that he's going to learn about? I'm mildly curious what that could be worth to the most violent of our brothers. Also, I'm wondering exactly what Dick is going to try to prove. Perhaps I can pass by it by simply ignoring both my siblings until they give up. Unlikely, I admit, but there is always a very slight chance that one or both of them are in an impatient mood.

"These are to the two of us from the other members of the team, Tim," Dick says brightly, and I raise one eyebrow in the look I borrowed from Alfred before lowering my gaze to my computer and doing my best to completely ignore both of them. "Oh, this one's from M'gann! It's all gone through security already so I guess it's safe to open here."

_Riiiipppp_.

I freeze for a moment, and then slowly raise my gaze up to Dick, the present in his hands, and the torn paper still half stuck to the rectangular box. He smiles brightly, _innocently_, at me. I watch him in what I think might be some kind of mixture of disbelief and horror as he rips the piece of paper fully off, leaving torn edges of wrapping and a bow still crooked diagonally across the top, barely even clinging on. I can feel myself swallow, and my gaze drops to the present and away from his bright blue eyes. He makes a happy little humming noise and tears another portion of the paper off of what I think is a plain brown, cardboard box that someone once used for shipping.

Dick drops the paper on the floor and cuts into the tape holding the box shut — _without finishing taking off the paper_ — with a knife he apparently materialized, cutting half of it open and then wrenching apart the other half with his bare hands. The tape gives grudgingly, peeling bits of the box away with it, and I honestly have no _idea _what my face looks like. But this…

"Ah!" Dick exclaims, retrieving a plastic bag amid a flood of crinkled paper stuffing that he just _lets _fall on the floor. "Cookies from M'gann!" He tosses them to me and I catch the bag on complete reflex before dropping it to one side of me on the couch, and Dick laughs. "Yeah, I don't trust them either."

He tosses the box behind him, spilling more paper, and I twitch, _sharply_. "Dick, could you maybe—"

_Riiiiiipppp._

I cut off, and he smiles up at me with that same blindingly innocent one. It's fake, _so _fake. He has another present in his hands. Square this time, with so much tape packed onto the outside that it's covered in a faintly milky sheen. Now one side is sticking up, twisted and with a dozen different strips of curling paper where the tape tore the design away from the top. He rips that piece away, dragging about a quarter of the top of the paper with it, still looking at me.

"_Yes_, Tim?" he asks sweetly, and distantly I can hear Jason snort. "This one's from Wally. He's the only one that uses this much," _riiiipppp_, "tape."

Calm. _Calm_. It's not my business how Dick opens his presents even if he's _doing it wrong_ and there's going to be paper everywhere and doesn't he _know _that Alfred will not be pleased at _all? _Even if he has no taste and is just — _rip _— taking that apart and creating a complete mess of a pile, and not carefully pulling the wrapping apart so it doesn't tear like it _should _be done. That's the _right _way to do it. This is barbaric.

"Yes," I answer distractedly, staring at his fingers as they _slowly _peel another piece of the wrapping away, the edges catching and tearing. "Dick, I can open those."

"Oh, it's _no problem_, Tim," Dick says, still _smiling_ and I think I _flinch_ when his hand jerks and rips the paper away. "You're busy, right?"

I carefully pick my laptop up and put it aside, on the couch opposite from where the plastic bag with the cookies is. "No, I—" He jerks again, paper and tape falling to the carpet, and before I realize what I'm doing I lunge across the table for the gift. Dick smoothly rolls back, kicking my arm up and away from it as he goes. He's laughing, and plan foiled I settle for grabbing the basket and retreating to the couch with it. I flash one of Damian's sneers at Dick and settle myself firmly in front of the basket. "You're _doing it wrong_," I stress.

Dick's grin is wide, and his head turns in the direction of — I follow his gaze — Jason, who is muffling laughter into the sleeve of his leather jacket. "Told you," Dick says smugly, in a purr, and Jason gives up. His laugh is startlingly bright and genuinely happy, and that's not a sound I've ever heard from him before. I've heard him laugh but it was bitter, or angry barks of amusement.

"You've proved your point," I say over Jason's laughing, aiming one of Dick's own smiles — with the baring of teeth and narrowing of eyes that make it a _threat _and not real in the slightest — back at him and not giving up my spot in front of the basket of gifts. "Congratulations. Now I have _work _to do, if you don't mind."

Dick gets to his feet, tossing me Wally's half unwrapped present with careless ease — I snatch it out of the air, even though the paper trailing from it is unpleasant and just _wrong_ — and giving me an equally careless smile. "Of course, baby bird. No problem. I've got my half of a deal to collect, after all."

I warily watch him cross the room to where Jason has his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. I'm fairly sure I'm not _that _amusing. Clearly, my violent older brother hasn't had a lot of things to laugh at recently. That's not too surprising, and explains the overreaction. I am not entertaining enough to be worth the silent, shaking laughter of someone that can't breathe. I've never been that entertaining. In fact, I don't know why anyone finds me entertaining at all, except when I'm that way on purpose. I don't bother pretending to be that with my family, anyway.

Dick takes a handful of Jason's hair and yanks up, arching our brother's neck back against the chair. Jason takes a sharp breath in, eyes snapping wide and I can see him reach for the knife I know is at the small of his back. I'm not particularly inclined to warn Dick about that. Jason's eyes flash bright green for a second, hand behind him, as our eldest slides a knee into the chair beside him and lets his free hand slide up Jason's chest.

"You owe me," Dick purrs with a smirk, fingers tracing over Jason's arched throat. For a moment I think Jason's about to stab our oldest brother, and I wonder exactly how much Dick has tested his interactions with Jason since our brother came back to life. Dick is aggressive when it comes to seduction, and his touch is painful more often than not — I've watched his partners limp or cringe around the next day — and Jason does have this new list of things he's not alright with.

Being at anyone's mercy is his trigger — one even _I _wouldn't exploit without good reason — and Dick tends to make everyone feel like that.

After that moment — where I wait and Dick shows absolutely no concern for what he's doing — I can see the tension bleed out of Jason, as his hand reemerges without a knife in it and he eases into the hands in his hair and against his chest. "Yeah, I do," he answers, sounding just a bit breathless. An aftereffect of the laughter, probably. Or just Dick's presence. "Here?"

Dick's gaze slides to me, and his smirk is predatory. "Well, apparently I'm not dear Tim's _type_. Seems rude to make him watch anything." He tugs _sharply_ on Jason's hair and Jason's eyes flicker closed for a second as he swallows, one hand clenching into a fist. Well, now _that _would explain why Dick claimed Jason as his own, wouldn't it? Also, why before-death Jason seemed so completely alright with that.

Our violent brother _likes _pain.

That almost makes me interested in him, especially since Jason is certainly closer to what I like the look of in males. More muscular, thicker, built as a brawler and not an acrobat. I prefer my men to look like men, and my women to look like women. There's absolutely no denying that Jason is handsome, either. However, he's Dick's territory. Until Dick decides that he's willing to share our brother with anyone else, the theoretical reward isn't worth the risk, or the repercussions. Jason wouldn't thank me for it either.

"Come with me, Jason," Dick demands, voice a promising whisper, and uses his grip on Jason's hair to pull our brother up to standing. I can see Jason's throat work in another swallow, his head tilting a bit to compensate for Dick being shorter. Dick flashes me a wicked smile, and lets Jason go. "Enjoy the gifts, Tim."

Jason spares me a glance, but then Dick is dragging him out of the room with the hand clenched tight in his shirt, and he's grinning and following completely willingly. I almost feel cheated as they vanish.

I was played, used to prove a point, and traded to Jason for something that he _clearly _is keen to do anyway. What was the point of the deal at all? Why is Dick giving away information that he could trade as a valuable commodity? Is he really that fond of our brother, of _Jason?_ I suppose Jason is _very _nice to look at, and clearly can handle and appreciate what Dick dishes out.

… I should activate my surveillance and see _precisely _why it is that sex with Jason is so valuable. For the sake of information, of course. All information is valuable, and with the way the team is leaning these days — now that we're all a bit more comfortable with each other — information of a sexual nature is probably going to be one of the most valuable commodities around. Knowing precisely what someone will or won't do, what they enjoy, what they _don't_. These are going to be the bits of information that will get me other valuable things to trade.

Mind made up, I turn and settle back onto the couch, retrieving my laptop and keying into my security. I get comfortable, shoving the gifts off the couch to lay along it and rest my back along a cushion and then the arm.

This could be a while.

* * *

><p>You just <em>know <em>that Tim has at least some measure of OCPD. And as someone with a minor version of that issue, let me just say that watching somebody rip apart wrapping paper just feels _wrong _to me, and like I just want to grab it out of their hands and do it myself. Yes, I borrowed my own reactions for Tim. XD Now, as I am not Tim, and I have a fairly minor case of this, I resist lunging across tables at my family members. But the urge is there, make no mistake.

So, in continuity, this comes directly after (the day after, in fact) 'Auld Lang Syne', on the first year that Jason has been returned to the Owl-family, the year before 'Trading Gifts'. This isn't the first time Dick and Jason have been together since he's been back, but it hasn't been more than once or twice before. What exactly Dick claimed as payment, I leave to your imagination. (But it wasn't Jason playing bottom, because I have yet to write far enough into this storyline the point where Jason actually becomes comfortable with that again, although I know how it happens.)

We're nearing the end, guys. Only two days left, and then we'll be done with this collection. However, no worries! I have much more in this universe planned outside of the Christmas sections. I'll be including a Master List on my profile eventually, so those who want to read these in canonical order (according to my universe) can. When that happens, I'll put up a warning on the top of each story pointing towards that list.

For now, see you tomorrow!


	11. Christmas Tradition

On the eleventh day of Christmas (just one more!) my true muse gave to me, '**Damian, Gingerbread House/Men**'. Now, Damian has been very absent from my stories so far, but this was a lot of fun. (Gee, seems like I keep saying that about all of these.) You get Damian being a little bastard, and Bruce still playing the part of the Dad who cannot believe he has somehow accumulated all these sons, and doesn't know how to handle them.

There are no warnings for this except referenced murder, and really if that kind of thing freaks you out I don't know why you're even here, considering what else is in these stories. XD It's a little short, but the scene was done and I was so not going to mess with what wasn't broken. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>"Father, what is the point of this?"<p>

"It's tradition, Damian," I answer easily, over my tablet and not even looking up to see exactly what it is that my youngest is actually talking about. The only thing he's asked that about for the past two weeks has been various Christmas decorations or events. I bless Talia for teaching my son to fight, and the hundred other things she made sure he knew, but I would have appreciated it if she'd also bothered to teach him anything about the actual world beyond the walls of her stronghold. Anything at all.

"Another one of your _Christmas_ traditions?" he asks, and I can hear the sneer in his voice.

"Yes, Damian," I answer, considering the four different cameras pulled up on the tablet and the recorded fights playing on them.

None have been near Gotham, in fact all of them have been in an entirely different continent, so the quality is bad enough — pieced together from a dozen different traffic cameras, cell phones, etc. — that even _I_ can't attempt fixing them. It was difficult enough to put together at all, but the effort doesn't matter. I'll take any information on my missing son, _Jason_, that I can get, no matter how bad. I have to keep track of him, I have to make sure that he never gets the chance to ambush any one of us again. I've almost lost Tim three times now, and Dick once. I will _not_ risk any of my sons to Jason again, and I won't let him at Damian.

I can't deny wanting him back — he's my _son_ — but that won't come at the expense of my other three children. It _can't_.

"You have a tradition that involves creating small men out of dough, as well as houses, and then destroying and eating them to prove your supremacy?"

I blink and look up, finding Damian perched on the opposite side of the table — just sitting, thankfully, not standing — considering the collection of gingerbread men and the house that appeared this morning, courtesy of Alfred. He has a look on his face that I've learned to be wary of, however I've also learned that there's generally no way to stop whatever idea has caused the look in the first place.

"I don't think that was the intention of it," I clarify, watching him as he watches them, "but yes."

"Then what was the intention?" he asks, a small frown on his face. It is something between disturbing and impressive that even at ten years old, he manages to have an adult's frown. I still don't know where he got that sneer from either.

"Does the original intention matter?" I counter, looking back down at the tablet in time to see the end of the fight in the upper right recording, where Jason crushes his opponent's throat with one boot. "It's not anything more than a holdover now, Damian. You're fully aware that all of the standard 'Christmas' traditions were cannibalized from various other religions and rites throughout the years."

"Yes, but which one was _this?_" Damian presses, and for a moment I reflect that _this_ must be what other parents always complained about. The never-ending stream of questions about things you take for granted, or never considered.

Except that my son is an _assassin,_ was one even before he came to me, and I didn't expect to have to answer these kinds of things considering the fact that he is both a trained killer and of above average intelligence. I was expecting raising him to be much like raising Tim, who only ever asked a question if he couldn't find the answer on his own. I was _not _expecting to be doing this much explaining.

"I don't know," I admit, glancing back up at him. "If you're interested, look it up. Or ask Alfred. I have work to do, Damian."

"No you don't," my son counters, and I stare at him for a second, until he looks up at me for the first time. He arches one eyebrow with a look of disdain that I know he practices. It's also copied straight from Ra's al Ghul, I've seen that look many times. "If you had work to do you would be in the Roost, father. You are not, therefore you don't have true work to do, only idle work. You're just keeping busy."

Unfortunately, that's true. Keeping track of Jason _is_ a priority, but it's also something that's done completely by automatic on my computer. Any hits that come up will prompt an alert for me, and all I have to do is piece together the footage or simply watch it. I've seen these four videos before, I'm merely scanning them again for anything I may have missed in my last several viewings. It's coming up on Christmas pretty quickly, and usually I use that time to plan out strategies for the coming year, but most of my preparation for that is already done. Apart from a standard patrol, and it isn't late enough for that, there isn't anything that needs to be done. I'm stalled on nearly everything else, as Owlman and as head of Wayne Enterprises, waiting for other people to respond.

It's frustrating, honestly. I'm the first to admit that the lack of anything productive to do isn't something I handle particularly well. At this point, I'm considering calling Dick to see if he wants to spar. Tim would say no, and with Damian I'd have to restrain myself and teach instead of letting loose. Right at the moment it's simple excess energy that I'm looking to burn off, with something that will consume my attention and focus. It's been a long time since I've had excess energy of any kind. I wish it had come at a time when I could actually use it for anything.

I set the tablet down on the table, watching Damian as he picks up one of the gingerbread men to turn it between his fingers. It's a lot of studying focus for something so completely mundane and honestly, common.

"The rest of my statements still stand," I tell him, and he sets the man back down inside the dish they're laid out in, with the others. He looks up, and the look is enough to make me just a little wary. Damian probably can't hurt me — badly, and physically — but that's the same look he had before he went on a killing spree through the shrubbery outside, and then later on when he all but demolished his room looking for surveillance devices, and found them all.

I chose to consider that last one as an impromptu training exercise, for the sake of my own sanity. It's probably a bad thing that 'training exercise' has become an excuse among my sons for just about everything. There are days I'm almost convinced that Jason is going to turn up one day and claim that this was all just an exercise to see what we'd do if one of our own betrayed us.

He won't, of course. Jason's anger is real, and _dangerous_.

"I wish to create a replica of Gotham with this, 'gingerbread'," Damian states calmly, with every inch of determination that makes me so proud of him and, occasionally, resigned to his existence. "You will help, father, since you have no work to attend to. Alfred will help as well, as will my predecessor." His lips curl into a sneer as he looks down his nose in distaste, with every combined drop of his mother's arrogance and mine. "Dick is not allowed in the house until it is done."

He nods once, like it's settled, and slips off the table to pad silently into the kitchen. I blink, and then smother a sigh as I get up to follow him, leaving my tablet on the table.

I suppose it could be much worse. All things considered, creating a model replica of Gotham with gingerbread is far simpler and less destructive than I expected. Even barring Dick from the house is a small price to pay for keeping Damian focused on a project like this, and therefore keeping him out of trouble. Tim will, of course, make sure it's done accurately as well. I'll help for as long as I have nothing to do, and then leave the rest to them.

Maybe, if I'm lucky, this will take them a couple of weeks to complete. And if I'm even more lucky, some business will crop up for me and I'll be able to excuse myself from helping. Though there is the question of where Damian expects to _put_ this replica…

Well, it's too late now. Ah well.

* * *

><p>So in continuity, this is the year after 'You're a Mean One', and one year before 'Auld Lang Syne'. I'm slowly filling in my empty spaces. Jason has done some serious damage to BruceDick/Tim, including the 'three stabbings' that Tim references, but hasn't yet had the chance to go after Damian (I am undecided, as of yet, whether Damian has taken over the role of Talon at this point). I actually know, in my head, exactly how that whole confrontation goes. I'll be writing more of that later XD

Alright, so I put together the master list! It has the correct reading order for these pieces, and I'll be updating it as I add more to this universe in other series. Please consult my profile for it, or head over to Archive of Our Own, where it's _way _more convenient and easy to read. Over there, I'm the same username (Skalidra), and everything in this continuity will be put into a series for convenience.

Just one left guys, just _one_, and I will just say this now. _I am so sorry_. See you tomorrow!


	12. Making a List

So, on the twelfth (the last!) day of Christmas, my true muse gave to me, '**Bruce/Dick/Jason/Tim/Damian, Christmas Dinner**'. Now, my first thought was just to have them all sit around a table and snip at each other, but then I realized I'd pretty much already done that in 'The Stroke of Midnight', for Secret Santa. So... this happened. And yes, I know, it's late. Apologies, guys. XD It just got really long, and really involved, and seriously... well, I'll let you put it together when you read it.

This contains past character death, partial insanity, and a fair amount of angst from a variety of characters. This is the first piece that I swap between characters, so fingers crossed that turns out alright. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>I never thought silence would bother me, but I suppose things change when you get older. There was a time where a peaceful night was just me with a cup of tea and the glow of my computer for lighting, when utter silence meant calm and comfort. I didn't realize how that had changed until I found myself in silence again.<p>

I didn't think I'd ever miss the sound of laughter, or voices raised in argument or teasing. You never know what you have until it's gone I suppose, and I've never missed something so much as the presence of my sons. Just the sounds of their existence, just the _faint _noise of someone else breathing instead of absolutely nothing but the soft drone of the computers, would make this so much more bearable.

But they were taken from me, torn from my grasp and scattered to the winds, and even worse than them being gone was the fact that I couldn't protect them anymore. That in comparison to the rest of the world I was old, outdated, and no matter how good I was I would _never _be an equal to the heroes of the new era. That what little protection I could offer wasn't enough, and then even _that _was stripped away and they were truly on their own.

I couldn't do a damn thing, all I could do was watch while the heroes hunted them down. One in prison, one damaged and broken, one driven so deep into hiding _I _could barely find him again, and one… One dead.

_God_, I was _not _supposed to outlive any of my sons.

But I held, because that's what I've always done. I stayed in hiding, kept myself out of the public eye and finally locked myself away when security got too tight for even me to bypass alone, and I watched my sons fall apart. Nothing I could do. The great Owlman, reduced to a man far past his prime, locked inside a bunker so the world stayed unaware and watching while everything I built fell to ash around me. What little of it was still left after so long. It's not like I couldn't see all of this coming.

I could see the Crime Syndicate fraying at the edges for _years_. Of course the big players were all still there, but we were losing smaller villains to prison, some even to death, and not everyone came back after a month or a year. Slowly, the heroes were gaining in number, power, and we were _barely _holding them in check instead of dominating them as we always had.

Then Quick died at Luthor's hand — to this day, I don't think Luthor meant to kill him — and everything fell apart at the seams. Suddenly the Crime Syndicate wasn't an unstoppable, unbeatable force anymore. We were as mortal as everyone else, and we could be killed like anyone else. We held out as long as we could, turned the world into a war zone, but eventually it was simply an inevitable loss that we clung to anyway. We fought until the gritty, bitter end, and we made the world _suffer _for taking us down.

Metropolis is a crater in the ground, Atlantis and Themyscira are still, even years later, ruins of what they used to be, Gotham… well, Gotham isn't all that different than it always was. I never had the same raw, destructive potential as most of my allies, and though my sons and I made the heroes bleed and _pay_ for every street they took, the damage we caused was mostly to people, not buildings. I never saw the point in destroying a city simply to spite the ones who fought for and claimed it. Gotham is still my home, and I was never going to destroy it simply because I'd lost control.

That final battle, at the steps of the fortress I'd made out of Wayne Manor, was my biggest mistake.

I should have just accepted my defeat. I should have set the defenses on automatic, taken my sons, and _ran_. It wasn't just me, none of my sons even _mentioned _the idea of leaving our home, but I should have known better than to take them into that fight. If Alfred had still been alive, _he _would have. He would have seen the odds we were facing — impossible, even by our standards — and insisted we go. He would have stayed behind to buy us time to hide, and _damn _my pride I should have done it in his place. I was supposed to be the strategist, the leader, the one with all the answers and a plan for _anything_.

But then the heroes descended, the Jokester leading the charge — nearly as old as me, but his chemical mutation kept him younger, kept him _stronger_ — and it was too late. Jason was shouting, Dick was laughing but obviously in _pain_, Damian was at my side until he _wasn't_, and Tim was a silent shadow next to us until he broke in with the words that changed _everything_.

"_They're hacked into our communications! Visible orders only, fall—"_

And it was over, just like that.

My sons were _screaming_, and it was all I could do to get myself out of the flaming _death trap _that the Manor had been turned into. All I could do to get into the cave, activate the self destruct timer to keep my tech and all of my information out of their hands, and escape. Some of the heroes caught up to me, but the ones they sent died at my hands and I hid. Erased myself from the systems, changed my mannerisms and my name, and watched the rest of the world recover from the damage we'd wreaked on it.

In Gotham, now, it's like the war never even happened. Life goes on, with more heroes and less criminal presence. Without me. In other places, the damage isn't even close to being fixed, let alone the Crime Syndicate's presence erased like it has been here. At least in other places, there's proof we were here.

Now the most you hear of the Owls, of me and my sons, are stories, whispered words. Our names still hold power, we are still considered something to threaten children with, but that's all we are. Words, stories.

_Defeated_.

But maybe it's time for that to change. On Christmas day, as soon as the sun sets, maybe it's time that the Owls came together one last time. Before I end things for good. It's only a few days away; not long now.

* * *

><p>In the middle of one of Gotham's outlying cemeteries, there's an unmarked grave. A simple headstone, slightly crooked and with one defining crack through it, with two engraved dates. Birth, to death. For those who know, it's a place of sanctuary.<p>

He was buried silently, the body watched by the eyes of heroes and criminals alike, though one from up close, and one from much further away. There's no coffin, no symbol of any kind to say who's in the grave, but of the four people watching two were family, and two were the men responsible for his death. They all knew what he called himself, what his name was, and who called him son, brother, _lover_.

On the day they put him to rest one of the heroes turned and shouted a promise into the air. "_We will __**never **__hunt you here," _he claimed, and though it was cold comfort for a grieving father and a brother, it was something.

Younger heroes don't know why, but all of Gotham's enforcement knows that simple rule. No matter who is in that cemetery, no matter what name they go by or who they claim to be, they are _not _touched if they cause no trouble. That law will always stand, passed down by titans and heroes whose names stand engraved in monuments and stone tributes.

And once in a while a man stops by. Not the same man, but several different ones. An old man, cane in hand and bundled against the weather, who brings flowers, and three separate younger men. One who laughs and cries in equal measure, one who kneels silently on the grave, and one escorted by guards and heroes, his orange prison uniform bright against the otherwise grey background.

The man in the grave was loved, was _cared _for by family and lover alike, and though eventually his real name will pass completely from the memory of the world, people will always remember his title.

The first Talon. Nightingale. _Owlman_.

And the attention was all he ever really wanted.

* * *

><p>"So what's your name, handsome?" the woman in my lap asks, short dress already riding high on her thighs, one hand looped around my shoulders and the other at my chest. As if my name matters to her at all, as if hers matters to me.<p>

"Whatever you want it to be," I answer smoothly, with a faked grin and a slide of my hand across her legs. Not venturing up, that's not how to play this. It's a thin line between aggressive and confident. "How about yours?"

Yeah, that's a line you mostly hear out of the shadier, pay-by-the-hour kind of people, the ones who sell themselves, but you can't fix the classics. It gets my message across, it intrigues, and it makes me just a little dangerous, which is a touch that most people can't pass up. I might not be proud of it, but I know what I'm doing. I know the right words to say to get heat in my bed for a night, and I might have fallen out of practice for a while — a long, _happy _while — but it's like any other skill. A night or two, and I fell right back into the ease.

"That doesn't seem real fair," she says with a laugh, and I trade back another verbal counter. No information, but keep her interested. It's not hard. It's _never _been hard.

I'm good looking, even now, and I know how to play people. I know both sides of that.

She's a ways from drunk, but definitely intoxicated, when I get her back to my apartment — I'll be gone in a week anyways; it doesn't matter — and the sex isn't bad. It's sex, and that's automatically nice enough, but I'm not in it for that. I want it for the press of her body against my chest as I sleep, the heat of _anyone _else in my bed because otherwise I mine as well not sleep at all. It's stupid, and it's _dangerous_, but without someone by my side my head is a cacophony of nightmares and sleep is a trial of blood and tension. I would rather risk this than face the blaze of fire behind my eyelids or the phantom smell of burning flesh in my nose.

She leaves a lot more quietly than a lot of my other one night stands, after a brief shower, and I'm alone again. Not that I expected any different; not that I _wanted _any different. No one could _ever _replace the people I lost, the people I _loved_, and I know that. I don't want anyone else to even try. I'd kill them first, and I know it.

The silence grates at my nerves, excess energy and a dangerous buildup of emotion lumping together in my throat and chest, and I can't help cursing my lack of anything to do. Surviving is one thing — it's what they would want from me, and _damn _them all but how could I ever go against that? — but living is something totally different. I've survived a long time, hid myself well enough that I've never been found by anyone at all, but that's not life the way I remember it, the way I _want _it. But there's no room for mercenaries in this new world, even if I wasn't a known associate of the Owl.

Even if my real name and face wasn't plastered across wanted lists all over the world — like my father, and my still-free brother — I wouldn't be able to play the part they'd want me to. I'm not a good person, and heroes took _so _much from me, how could I _ever _think about helping them? That's the only kind of mercenary work in this world now, and besides, it's a little late for me to pick up a new name or a new identity

Calling myself Red Hood again would be worse than a death sentence; it would be begging for imprisonment. Not next to my brother, of course — there is _no one_ stupid enough to put two Owls together and expect them to stay imprisoned — but by myself, in some hellhole prison they've thrown together for the superpowered and the criminally insane. Because there's no prison on Earth, built for normal humans, that could ever hold me. Everyone knows that.

I'm sitting at the table when my only window, to one side of the living room area with a limited line of sight, shatters and a metal drone lands in the middle of my floor. It straightens up as I go for a gun, and it's fully up — about two and a half feet tall — as I click the safety off the one I have and aim it down, half crouched behind the table for some kind of cover.

It's not police, I can tell that much just by a glance. Those are usually dirty, the grime of a city worn into its edges, and not nearly as basic as this one looks. It's not a _simple_ drone, or outdated, but the shape of it is basic and lacking the weapons the police ones carry. It's well put together, the edges smooth and nearly seamless, and it's pretty ridiculously clean. This isn't some amateur's drone, or a mistake, so even though it might look more like a hologram projector on legs than anything else, the flicker of a blue light on the front of it, mapping the room, still gets me to duck a little farther behind the leg of the table.

"_Identity confirmed,_" it chirps, "_Jason. No other entities nearby_."

Oh _fuck_. My grip on the gun tightens, and I take another look at the drone and try and decide what the most likely place is on it that I could shoot to take it out, without blowing it up. I really don't need that kind of attention on my place.

"_Establishing connection_," it continues, and I stare as the light blinks again and it slides apart a bit on the top, light shining upwards. The figure it creates freezes my breath in my chest. He's not real, even though the technology is good enough that it _looks _real — apart from the whole standing in air thing — and it feels like the blue eyes staring out into the room, scanning, are every bit as real as the press of wood to my shoulder.

"Jason," it says, with only the faintest hint of electronic amplification, and I stay very still and try not to leap out from behind my cover. This could still be a trick, it _has _to be a trick.

All these years, and suddenly a drone from Bruce shows up in the middle of my apartment, while I'm totally off the radar and haven't seen another Owl since… since _that_ night? No way. That's beyond unbelievable, and that's throwing off all my instincts that scream trap. That scream that everyone knows what my weak points are, and if they could find me they'd exploit every single one before they came after me. Just to weaken me.

Bruce is one of those weaknesses. The others… dead, or I haven't seen them in a long time.

"It's alright, Jason," the trick says, with a thick frown and another scan of blue eyes. I give whoever the hell sent it props, it's accurate. The eyes are the right shade, and he's every bit the old man I remember with an added few wrinkles to justify the years since I last saw him. Not that it means a damn thing. Technology's moved on, realistic holograms aren't a difficult thing anymore.

I eye my escape routes. When it comes down to it, I don't _need_ anything in my apartment. It'd be nice to grab my papers, money, things like that, but I've started from scratch before and I can do it again. There's the shattered window, or the door, and both are fairly securely behind the drone. I can get past, but depending on exactly what the thing is set to do it might cost me. Still, I could probably make it without getting hurt too badly. My reflexes might not be what they were when I was twenty, but I'm still damn good. Better than people give me credit for.

The image of Bruce curls its mouth into a thin smirk and gives a small shake of its head. "Naturally," it says, seemingly mostly to itself. "Jason, when we brought you back to the Roost I told you that the reason the Jokester was in Arkham, and not dead, was because death wasn't enough and I wanted him to suffer for what he did to you. I pressed a kiss to your forehead, even though you threatened to tear my throat out, and that's the only time I ever did that in all the years we called each other family. It's really me, Jason."

I swallow thickly, and then slowly straighten up from behind the table. The drone angles a little more towards me, and I flinch but don't move as it flashes me with the same blue light. Not a trick. Heroes might have somehow gotten hold of our security feeds — not likely, but possible — so they could know what happened between Bruce and I, but _no one _could possibly know that Bruce never, _ever_, gave me a kiss like that again. We touched, hugged in times when the world was falling apart around our family, but something as parental as that? No, never happened.

The eyes of Bruce's image focus on me, and he gives a smile that's just a touch sad. "Jason," he offers, and I give a small nod back.

"Bruce, long time no see." I tuck the gun away and take a glance behind the drone and hologram to the window. I've probably got maybe half an hour before someone investigates that, and I should be gone by the time that happens. Maybe I'm the 'victim' of whatever I tell them happened — obviously, the glass was blown inwards — but they'll still take my prints and run me through the system to log me. That will set off _all _kinds of alarms, and I'd rather not get on the news again. I've been doing _really _well at that not happening for _years _now.

I look back at the hologram and offer a tight smile that feels fake even to me, but that's fine. It's not like Bruce doesn't know the _hell _I've been through since the night we got torn apart, it's not like he expects me to be happy. "So why the call?" I ask, sitting down on the corner of the table.

"I'm bringing us all back together," Bruce replies, completely seriously. "Not to be Owls again, necessarily, but Damian deserves to be out of prison and it would be good to see you all again, at least once."

"Are you dying?" I ask flatly. That's the only reason I can think of that Bruce would demand to see us all, except if he was restarting all of us as a criminal organization again. We could do it, I know that, but Bruce already said he wasn't bringing us in specifically to be Owls. It's not like it would be a big shock. Our father is… well, he's old. Considering the hell he put his body through I'm kind of surprised he hasn't died already.

Fuck, there's a screwed up thought. Amazed that my father isn't already dead, how _awesome _of me.

"No, Jason," Bruce says with another thin smile. "Not yet. Consider it a long overdue reunion for Christmas, nothing more."

I swallow, crossing my arms over my chest. "You don't want me around," I tell him flatly, with another forced smile. "Bring me in and we'll get heroes at our door within the hour, practically guaranteed."

Everyone around me dies. It's just a fact I've accepted. Dick — I swallow, _hard _— died the night we fell apart, burned alive and _fuck _I watched it happen. I tried to get him out but it was too little, too late, and I barely managed to get Tim out of there before the self destruct went off. I did get out, Tim over my shoulder, but it… it wasn't easy.

Then there was Kori, and Roy. God, _Roy_.

"It doesn't matter," Bruce says, and I close my eyes for a second to get the images out of my head, to push away the shakiness of my hands and the hitch in my breath. "You know we can handle ourselves, Jason. It will be alright, I promise. Just one night."

His gaze is steady where mine isn't, and I shove out a breath. I have to swallow, _again_, to be able to speak. I should trust that my family can survive a night with me, even if the evidence is seriously the other way. They're Owls, they can live. Tim and Damian are alright, after all. Or, they were the last time I heard about them.

"Alright," I agree, meeting Bruce's eyes. "Where am I heading?"

* * *

><p>The darkness is easier to handle. With the press of the cave's wall to my back, and my own arms wrapped around my knees, it's easiest. I blink, staring past my legs to the drone and the bright hologram coming from the top. Bruce. No one else could find me, I made <em>sure <em>of that.

The light disrupts my blackness, and makes things a little harder, but it could be worse. I do my best to not ever go out in the day anymore. The light throws everything into bright relief that's _wrong _with me, that's wrong with _everything_. Makes me have to think about all the temptations burning in the back of my head, all the plans I've created and I could implement in a second, with a _word_. But that's dangerous, it's suicidal in a way that I'm not — I _swear_ — and I have to survive. For the ones that are dead, or imprisoned.

For Dick, for Damian, for Kon.

"Tim?" the hologram asks, and I refocus, blinking a few times to get some moisture back in my eyes. I… I forget to blink, sometimes.

"I'm listening, Bruce. I heard the address." I try and reassure him — and I _did_ hear, I _really _did — but his smile is tight, unbelieving. "I'll be there." I've got two days, and it's not that far of a trip even if I avoid all the major means of transportation. I'm wiped from the system, I gave myself a completely new identity as soon as I was well enough to hack the public systems, but my face is still out there on the wanted lists, so it's safer to take less public methods of travel.

_("As if any of them could stop you.")_

A voice hisses in the back of my mind, _my _voice, and I close my eyes for a second to shut it out. I _can _control it, I _can_.

"Very well," Bruce agrees, though he still doesn't look or sound convinced. As if it matters, no one has believed in me for a long time. Not since Kon was imprisoned, and I was too damaged to break him back out.

If I could get to the prison I could probably do it (the voice in the back of my head laughs and tells me, "_Yes, you __**can**__."_) but then what? Kon's an easier target than me — aliens are much simpler to track than normal humans — and I don't think I can keep him hidden with me. Not if people are looking for him.

Maybe I could fake his death, get the world convinced that the prison had been broken into to kill him, that there was someone, somewhere, connected enough to destroy him for something that he'd done. There are more than enough people that would be happy to kill Kon — or at least would want to see him dead, like Clark — if they had the chance. 'Accidents' have happened before, to imprisoned former villains. I've watched them happen. There are 'leaks', or 'glitches', or 'natural' deaths that are clearly anything but.

It hasn't happened to Kon, and it hasn't happened to Damian. The rest of our team… Not all of them were that lucky.

If you define 'luck' as staying imprisoned by guards that despise you, among other prisoners that hate you, in a world that waits the day that news of your death gets past the walls. That's being alive, but it's not really living. I know that it's even worse as someone with powers.

For Kon, it's life underneath the glow of a red sun and with kryptonite burning at the edges of his cell. A life where I can't _save _him.

_("You __**can**__, it wouldn't be hard. Take them apart, make them __**bleed**__. Go. __**Go**__.")_

"I'll be there," I repeat, trying to sound just a little more convincing. I borrow one of Bruce's tones to do it, and the voice is laughing, hissing, _screaming _in the back of my mind but I swallow it down and meet Bruce's eyes. I can _control _this.

I've spent my whole life controlling everything about my own actions, and _Jason _handled a dip in the Lazarus Pit just fine. _I _should be able to as well, shouldn't I? It was just one time, I wasn't even dead. Jason was brought back by something that, _still_, none of us understand, not the pit, but that's not the point. Am I really that much weaker willed than my brother?

We all knew Jason was the strongest of us, we _all _knew it. Jason survived dying, he faced all of us and held strong against the nastiest we could do, he lived and _fought _in a way none of us could have. He had the courage and the determination to try and burn us (_no_, don't think about the _flames_) to the ground for what he thought Bruce and Dick had done to him. He had the courage to turn around and be one of us again, too. To _forgive_ and to put himself with the people he'd been trying to kill for years.

And he got better, in the end. He was _better_, he was _happy_. These days…

"What about the others?" I ask, and Bruce nods.

"I've spoken with Jason, he's coming. Damian is harder, but I should have contact with him within the next few hours. I'm breaking him out; I've had years to study the prison they're keeping him in." His eyes narrow just a little, and he looks at me with something that almost looks like sympathy. "Are you alright, Tim?" he asks plainly. "I heard some of what happened, but there's very little information about you out there."

"Good," I answer instantly, and then lean my head back against the wall of my own personal cave for a moment. "I'm…" No, I'm _so _far from alright. "I'm alive," I settle on answering, "and I'm off the grid. That's enough for right now. How's Jason?"

Bruce, thankfully, drops the subject. If he knew the things I've struggled to stop myself doing, the things I _nearly _did…

I've been such an _idiot _at times, in these past few years that I've been alone. I can't say I shouldn't have infiltrated Ra's' base, or that I shouldn't have used his Lazarus Pit, but I should have… I don't know what I should have done, but I do know that I didn't have another choice. I was broken, burnt and _scarred _too badly to really function in the world, let alone be among the public. Jason so rarely even mentioned what the pit did to him, and you only ever saw it after his stint as our enemy in the flashes of green in his gaze, that I imagined it wasn't so bad. After all, it had been Jason's grief and his _rage _that drove him mad for a time, and I was fully in control of myself. I didn't have any of that.

_("Bruce would be so __**disappointed **__in your weakness, wouldn't he?")_

But the pit is— it's _sentient _in a way, and I thought it targeted anger or grief but that wasn't it. It targeted the critical part of me, the lock I kept on all my emotions, all my impulses, and it ate and _tore _at it until it broke. Until it was all I could do, on the streets, not to kill anyone I came across, until I wanted to _scream _and cry and _laugh _at how fucked up the world around me was.

It's still me, and I _know _that, but it's a manipulation of the weakest _parts_ of me. Everything I kept in check dragged to the surface. All of my fear, and the desire to _hurt_, and _kill_. It's safer for me up here, where there's no one to harm and no way to blow my track record of anonymity.

"He's surviving," Bruce answers, and I see his head tilt a little bit, glancing to the side at something. "Not entirely well, but he seems to at least be coping. He's had a rough time of things; you heard what happened to his companions?"

"I heard," I confirm, with a wince at the thought. Harper and Koriand'r, the other two parts of my brother's official relationship. Jason was always Dick's, in whatever we have that's closest to a soul (_burnt _and _blackened_ by the fire and the _green_), but he gave his heart to Harper. We called him, and Kori, family, even before they knew who we were.

Dick was the first, of course. He died in the fire, and Jason tried to pull him out, I saw it, but he couldn't. I was mostly unconscious by the time Jason managed to get _me _out of the fire, and Damian was _screaming _through our communication channels — _hacked_, and I should have noticed faster but I didn't — as they dragged him away in cuffs and a shock collar. But then Jason was hiding, recovering with the two people he loved, who loved _him_, and aliens are so much easier to track than humans.

I don't know the specifics of what happened, but I know that heroes found them, went after them, and both Kori and Roy went down _hard_. Jason lived, and he vanished. I can't imagine that it was easy for him.

"He's suffered enough for all of us," I comment, almost to myself, and Bruce nods.

"That he has."

* * *

><p>The baton that hits my jaw is unpleasant, <em>unwelcome<em>, but not unexpected. I turn with it, absorbing the least impact possible and spinning to crouch down somewhat and back off a few steps, out of his range.

"You're out of line, inmate!" the guard snarls, giving a reason to his completely unprovoked attack. I haven't done a thing, but then I never do. "Do you want to be back in solitary, Wayne?!"

That is a promise, not a threat or a warning, and the both of us know it. I smile through the ache of my jaw, flashing a grin that I borrow from Jason's more bloodthirsty ones, and straighten up tall and strong. As if this _fool _can intimidate me, as if I would ever allow myself to appear weak or cowed in front of any other inmate. I rule this prison, it is _mine_ by virtue of me being the most dangerous one here, and I will not give up that position no matter _how _they punish me for it.

I am _Damian Wayne_, I was the last Talon and then I was a shadow, and I will _never _let anyone forget that fact.

"It would be a welcome relief from the company you inflict on me," I say, holding a smirk on my lips and eyeing the baton in his hand from my peripheral vision.

Once again, I wonder how far I would get in an escape attempt. It probably wouldn't succeed, and they would beat me bloody for it — as though they don't do that anyway on a regular basis — but perhaps it would gain me enough respect among the newer, or more violent, inmates that it would be worth it. The older ones, the ones that were here long before I was, would only scoff and roll their eyes, but it might impress the younger ones. In here, there is no currency but power.

I'm past my absolute prime, but if I hadn't established my superiority right off the bat, the _instant _I entered this prison, I would still have been beaten and forced into being someone else's toy. It's simply the way things are. After all, I grew into nearly the perfect mix of my father's handsome qualities, and my mother's beauty.

Luckily, this is a prison for the superpowered, and without their powers they're little more than mediocre fighters by my standards. I was considered to be dangerous enough to be placed in here, but I have no powers to restrain or nullify. That makes me better than them, it makes me a step above. Sometimes, it pays to be a normal human among the powered element.

Ruling the prison makes me a target, of course, but I was already one before that. After all, I am an Owl. I was beaten by the guards before I even stepped foot inside their walls, and again after I took down the biggest, _nastiest _inmate I could find and told the rest that they were welcome to try their luck as well. More did, and I took them apart until I stood at the top of the ladder. The guards hurt me for it, but I have always been able to handle pain and I knew better than to fight them. After all, in here I may be the ruler of the inmates, but we all still live by the word of the guards and the warden.

Those are the rules.

These days, attacks by other inmates are rare, and the guards only come after me once a week or so. If they don't get bored with waiting, like this fool.

"Back down, _Wayne_," he demands, and I can hear the hiss and whine of his baton as he flicks the electricity on. His other hand hovers at his belt, at the remote for the metal collar around my throat. They're tuned to nullify whatever powers an inmate has, but in my case it's only the second function that matters. It's a very expensive shock collar, and it will take me down faster than anything else in here.

I have some faint scars on my neck from where it singes when it activates, two small dots on either side of my throat. The remotes aren't _encouraged_, in case of a miss or an accidental hit of someone unintended, and they are _supposed _to call in an inmate number or name to be taken out by the office, but most of the guards don't care much about protocol. Not when it comes to their own personal amusement, or revenge.

The inmates around me, to either side where I was about to collect breakfast for the day, step away. _Also _out of line, but of course no one bothers them. I can feel the inmates at my back, hear their presence in the slaps of their feet against the floor and the rustle of their clothing, and I flash another grin at the guard.

"I can step back in line," I offer, glancing sideways at the pile of plastic trays and the metal counter in front of the food dispensers, "since _that _was your problem with me, _sir_."

He sneers, his muscles tense, and I prepare for a strike of the baton, but before he can speak there's an ear piercing screech of an alarm. Most of everyone around me recoils, or shouts in surprise and pain, including the guard threatening me, but I contain and control the reaction to look around. It cuts off, and the screen against the wall to my right, at the other end of the dining hall and used for the warden to 'address' the inmates, clicks on. At the sight of the man on it, I react _instantly_.

I step forward towards the startled guard and take hold of the side of his head, slamming it into the metal counter hard enough to break the plastic shield of the helmet protecting it. He crumples to the ground, and I collect his baton. No one comes after me, and I take a half-step back against the counter and in front of the guard, holding my new weapon just a bit behind myself as I return my attention to the screen.

Blue eyes stare down at the cafeteria, and my father gives a thin smirk. "My name is Bruce Wayne," he says, voice ringing across the room, and I can feel eyes turn to me as warmth blooms in my chest. My _father_. It's good to hear his voice again. "Most of you will know me better by my other name, _Owlman_."

There's a ripple of recognition, of murmurs and whispers, and the closest inmates step away from me. I resist the urge to grin like Jason would, or Dick, and restrain myself to giving the same thin smirk on my father's face. Yes, it's about _time_. I was starting to think that I would have to enact one of my own escape plans soon enough, before I hunted down the rest of my family and brought them back together. It is _far _past time that the Owls were feared again.

"This prison is under my complete control. The warden has been disabled," there's a click, and I take in a sharp breath as the collar around my neck falls away from my skin, hitting the ground with a clank repeated a hundred other times across the room, "as have your collars. The doors are open, and the guards are your only obstacle until the heroes arrive. The closest ones are indisposed or otherwise busy, it will be approximately an hour and thirty-seven minutes before any other response gets here."

I look around, pinpointing where the guards are and exactly how they're reacting. Horror, it looks like, and they _should _be. The other inmates are starting to get past their shock, starting to react and recover like the soldiers and weapons they are. Powers are popping back into effect all over the room; flame, ice, and electricity buzzing as metal crumples under strength and super-speeders begin to vibrate. With each new person, the ones next to them take notice and try their own powers. It's close to a revolution. The guards are dead men walking.

"I am offering you freedom from your lives as prisoners. _Take _it."

Of course, it's the super-speeders that move first. Streaks of orange that are up and moving before anyone else can react. I follow their trail, the cries of pain from guards getting hit with forces just as deadly as anyone with enhanced strength, and I let the smirk curl my lips a little farther.

"_Move_," I shout, and the room rises. There's anger, and even those less inclined to fight are carried along on the tidal wave of repressed aggression. I stay out of it, standing in front of my downed guard and watching as the rest of the prisoners tear the guards into bloody pieces. Not _everyone _here was happy with my rule, even if I was far fairer than their last ruler. You don't gain loyal followers by being cruel, after all.

My advantage is still there, but I'm no longer clearly superior to everyone else anymore. Now they have powers, and I'm still a normal human. If anyone's held a grudge against me, now would be the time to attempt finishing it.

There's a soft whine of metal and the electrical edge of some kind of computer, and I look up in time to see a small drone — perhaps the size of a tennis ball — float down in front of me. It's not one of the prison's, not that those would be up and running, so I content myself with shifting the grip on my baton and studying it.

A hologram pops up on top, perhaps a foot high, of my father, and I offer him a sharp smile. "Father, it's good to see you."

"You as well, Damian," it replies in my father's voice, with only a small metallic taint. "The breakout is for you, of course."

"Naturally," I answer, scanning the room to figure out the best way to escape. The main exit is an obvious no, far too many people will be attempting to get out that way, so my best option would be one of the smaller, back exits. If my father truly has control of the prison's systems, the alarm, electrified wall, and automatic drones shouldn't be the same barrier they were before. "Is what you told the rest of them true?" I ask.

"Yes. I ensured that all heroes capable of a quick response were busy, or otherwise incapacitated. I have control of all the hardware, and the warden stopped breathing hours ago. I've had years to set this up."

"There is someone I'll need to fetch first," I aim at the drone, and turn to slip away from the main rush, through an open door that leads back to a section of solitary cells, for the more dangerous inmates. The drone follows, hovering at my shoulder. "Kon-El is imprisoned here, I saw him a time or two through the view on his cell door."

"That may not be a wise idea," my father cautions, and I stop and turn, facing the drone.

"Can we hide him, father?" I ask flatly. It's true that the tracking for aliens is more sophisticated, and that they are more difficult to truly wipe off the grid like a human, but there are ways around that. My father's had years to work that problem out, and I know it isn't something he would have left unresearched.

"Yes," he answers reluctantly, and I nod and continue my way down the corridor to a second security door, also open.

"Then I am not leaving him here. He is Tim's and he is _family_, so I will not leave him here when there was the chance to retrieve him. Apologies, father." Not that I mean it, but my intention was not to change or disrupt his plan. Which, speaking of; "What is the escape plan, where am I headed?"

"Later, Damian, once we're beyond the range of the security cameras. I will of course be erasing all footage, but it is best to be cautious. Just in case. Retrieve Kon-El, and I will lead you both through your escape."

* * *

><p>I'm the first person there, but that doesn't surprise me. Damian's been in prison, for fuck's sake, and since I haven't heard anything about Tim in a long time he must be pretty seriously hidden. I should have asked Bruce. I didn't, because I'm a terrible fucking person and a useless brother, most of the time. Maybe I got Tim out of the fire, but then I just left him behind. I ran off to be with Roy and Kori — and got them killed too, what a <em>fucking<em> surprise — and left my possibly dying brother alone with the only medic I still trusted not to rat him out.

Even if she was an old lady by that point.

I tried to find him again, after that, but there's only so much you can do without tripping alarms as a normal civilian. There wasn't much that I managed to do, and he never popped up on any news feeds that I could find. I guess Tim was always the best of us at avoiding attention he didn't want.

How the fuck could he ever forgive me for leaving him like that?

It's a decent looking house, and the door is just as unlocked as Bruce said it would be. The warmth that drifts out comforts the parts of me I never got rid of — but I tamped down, so no one knew they were there but me — and I close the door behind me. There are a few ambient sounds, but nothing that suggests any kind of human life. The place doesn't even really look lived in, just decorated for the sake of not looking bare. It reminds me of the manor a bit, just downsized and less expensive.

Is this where Bruce has been living, or just something he set aside for when he eventually got us back together? I guess that depends on whether there's a secret entrance behind some section of wall, and a bunker underneath it. Bruce would never stay somewhere that he couldn't have at least a basic set of his computers and a place to hide, if things went south.

I scout the house out, mapping exit and entrance points, line of sights, and the furniture layout in each room. The table in the dining room is set for five, and I have to swallow down the thought that the last place is for Dick. That doesn't feel like something Bruce would do, even if it's the first thing that jumps to my mind. Someone else must be joining us. There are people we called allies, family, friends, and not all of them are dead and buried. The easiest assumption is someone in the prison Bruce broke Damian out of.

Yeah, _that_ news I saw. Warning, alarms, breaking news reports, and increased security everywhere I went. Made it harder to get here, sure, but they were looking for inmates, not people they hadn't caught in the first place.

Made me feel something like glee for the first time in I don't know how long. Hundreds of super powered criminals out on the streets again, powers fully functional and looking for a _whole_ lot of revenge. On the heels of that came the picture of our father, and the news that Bruce Wayne, aka the first Owlman, had hacked, disabled, or otherwise fucked up the entire prison and let everyone out, just like that. Oh, it felt _good_ to see 'Owl' on people's lips again. It felt _good_ to hear the whispers of our names. Felt like a real Christmas gift.

Maybe Bruce isn't bringing us back together to be the Owl-family again, but that doesn't mean it couldn't happen. It would be good to work next to my brothers again, and under the direction of our father. We've learned, we're _better_, and maybe the heroes have gotten a bit complacent in the years since they brought us down. It wouldn't take much to take at least a little control back under their noses, and we're _Owls_ for god's sake; we know how to stay off the radar until we want to be seen.

That's kind of our thing.

I take up a position near the front door, out of sight until you're completely in but with a decent view of the entry, and settle in to wait. I'm early, after all, and I don't know exactly where Tim is coming from, or where Bruce and Damian have been since the prison break. Who knows how long it could be before they get here?

It actually isn't as long as I thought it might be. It's only about twenty minutes before there's a voice from behind me.

"Hey, Jason."

I jerk around, spitting, "Jesus _fucking _Christ," on total reflex as my hand snaps to the gun I laid next to me. I get the barrel halfway up, and I'm halfway turned around, before I find a blank expression and a pair of blue eyes looking back at me. I shove out a breath and drop the gun down, rubbing my free hand over my face as I lean back against the wall. "_Fuck_, Tim, could you _not _do that?" I gripe.

"Apologies," he says smoothly, stepping closer to me, and I flick the safety and stow the gun inside my jacket.

"Yeah right," I answer, shaking my head and taking a deep breath. I look back at him, and with a speed that feels _iceberg _slow everything clicks together. Tim is standing tall, dressed in a business suit like the ones you still see on executives, and he's every inch exactly who I remember. "You haven't got any scars," I manage to say, staring at him, and he gives a thin smile. For once, I don't recognize it as anyone else's.

"No, I don't. I healed, Jason, it's alright."

"That's such bullshit," I say, straightening up off the wall. I'm still a little taller than Tim, even though he did eventually grow up to a real height, but not by much. "_I've _still got scars from that night, Tim, and I didn't take _half _what you did." I take a step towards him, as he keeps my gaze. "What did you do?" I ask.

I _remember _that night. The manor was on fire, and Dick was trapped under a load of flaming rubble and he was laughing in _defiance _as the flames licked at what little skin of his was exposed and the metal of the Owlman suit heated around him. Both legs crushed, one arm broken and half of his suit barely even working anymore, and he was _laughing_. He knew he was going to die, and I tried to save him but I couldn't lift the rubble, couldn't get it _off _him. I couldn't breathe in the smoke — my helmet was in pieces, the filtration shattered near the very start of the fight — and my jacket caught _fire _as I tried to pull Dick out of the rubble. I could hear Damian screaming in my ear, and Dick shoved me back.

"_Go," _he hissed at me, and I did. _God_, I did. Tim wasn't far, and he was only caught under a single beam but he didn't have as much protection. He was _burning_, and he was _screaming_, and I got it off of him but it hurt. The beam was just as much on fire as he was, and my gloves were protection but I'd already lost my jacket and my shirt didn't do much when I braced myself under the beam and lifted it with my shoulders, across my back.

I _still _have the scars from that, and there's no _way _that Tim healed well enough to look normal. Not possible. I know the mess he was when I left him with Leslie.

"What did you do?" I ask again, when he doesn't answer, and his eyes flash sharp, _brilliant _green when I reach out to take his shoulder in my hand. I freeze for a second, and then I drop my hand and take half a step back. "Tell me you didn't," I nearly beg, and his mouth thins out into a guilty line. "The pit, Tim? You used the _pit?_"

"Yes," he admits, and I scrub my hand over my face.

No, _no_. No one deserves being dunked in that hell, and _definitely _not my family. I would _never _use that damned thing on anyone, not _ever_. It's not worth it, it never was, and I still don't know how Ra's managed to keep himself sane for so long. The man must have been the damned pinnacle of human restraint to not give in to its effects. _I _still struggle with what it left in me, sometimes. Not much anymore, but sometimes.

But Tim? Tim isn't me, and he's not Ra's, and the pit is _not _an easy thing to handle. It took me years to level out, and that was with support and people I might have even called friends once upon a time. How the hell has Tim managed it? _Has_ he?

"How bad is it?" I ask bluntly. It's _stupid _to ask if he's alright — of _course _he isn't — but the pit is different for different people. Maybe it didn't tear him apart like it did me, maybe he got off easy. God, I _hope _he got off easy.

I can see Tim swallow, twitch, eyes closing tightly for a moment, before he smoothes back out. "Bad," he answers, and then there's a laugh bursting out of his throat before he cuts it off just as quickly. Oh _no_. "I didn't think it would be like this," he manages, meeting my eyes. "You hardly ever talked about the pit, and I thought it would be simpler. I didn't know it was… I didn't know about the _green_."

I step forward and grab him, jerking him towards me, and I can see the green in his eyes but I shove the warning away. "You stupid little _bastard_," I snarl into his ear, wrapping my arms tight around his too-thin frame. "Why the _fuck _didn't you find me, T? It's _hell_, and it's fucked up, and you're such a _fucking _moron sometimes for as much as everybody talks about your brain. You _should have come to me_."

His breathing is sharp, rapid, but he eases into me like I'm his last lifeline. God, the stupid little bastard. He shouldn't have had to face the pit's after effects alone, and he damn well should have _known _better.

"I thought it was just me," Tim gasps into my shoulder, "you handled it fine and I thought I was just _weaker_. I—"

"You're a fucking _idiot_," I snap. "I was a mess, Tim, even _after _I was family again. Before that, I was barely _me _half the time. _No one _takes the pit well, dumbass, not _anyone_. You're family, you should _never _have had to do this by yourself." Tim's hands slip under my jacket, wrapping around my waist and clinging tight, and I wrap a hand around the back of his skull and hold him just as firmly against me.

Dick's gone — and that aches and _stings _but I swallow through it — and that makes me the eldest, it makes me responsible for everyone else. Bruce is old, and Tim and Damian are a long ways from young now but I'm still their older brother. I've never really been the responsible one, but I can start, I can learn. Starting with this bullshit right here.

I can get Tim through the pit's effects, I know I can. Ra's told me all I needed to know about controlling it, the fact that I didn't _listen_ didn't make the advice any less useful. Tim's better at the whole listening thing than I ever was, and since he's been very firmly out of the news I _know _he's been better at the whole 'not giving in to the voice' thing. I let the one in my head lead me around for a long time, obviously Tim hasn't done that. If I give Tim all the same information Ra's gave me, and I'm there for him, he should recover a lot faster than I did. There was no one to help me through my time under the pit's influence, but that's damn well not going to happen to Tim. He'll get _all_ the help he needs, all he can _fucking_ stand, because I know how this shit goes and I'm not leaving him alone to deal with it himself.

We're family.

He's shivering, twitching, and his breathing doesn't calm down from the sharp, almost panicked pattern that it's in, but he's not crying. He's barely making a noise against me, and I bury my head against his shoulder like he has his against mine, letting him stay against me as long as he wants. That's so much of it right there. It's just touch, knowing someone else cares for you and that there's someone, _anywhere_, who really gives a damn that you're in pain. I _know_ that.

Finally, he gets his breathing under control, and the shivering calms down to much smaller twitches and the occasional shudder. He pulls back just a touch, eases up his grip on me, and I reluctantly let him pull back as much as he wants to. He doesn't look _good_, but his eyes — when they raise up to look at me — are back to the same crystal blue that they should be. There's only a small trace of green swimming in the background, but I know that look from my own eyes. That never goes away.

"Thank you, Jason," he says, in a voice that sounds drained, _exhausted_.

"It's not a problem, baby bird," I say with a forced grin, and he shakes his head.

"I am a _long_ way from being a baby, Jay," he comments with a sarcastic, snide air, and pulls away from me completely. Good, he's back to being at least a little bit more like himself. That's good.

"It's going to take a while," I warn him, as he starts to turn away, "but we'll fix it, T. I'll get you through it, I promise."

He studies me for a second before giving a single nod, and the flash of a smile that takes my breath away. Dick's smile, through and through. I wince, and it vanishes off his face. "Sorry," he says, after a moment where I try and breathe and not think about the pain in my chest that feels like I just got stabbed by a ghost. "It's habit; I'll try not to use them."

"Thanks," I manage, and he reaches out to slide his hand up my arm, squeezing once before pulling away.

"You've already mapped out the house?" he asks, turning slowly on the spot and sweeping the gaze of his mostly blue eyes around, studying the surrounding area that he can see from this spot. I left most of the doors open, where they were when I got here, so there's not much to block his view.

"Yeah." I drag myself up straight, brushing away the lingering pain and taking in a deep breath. "What I could see, anyway. If this is B's house you know he's got some kind of underground bunker, and an entrance somewhere. I didn't find it, but I didn't really look."

He flashes a sharper smile, one of Damian's this time so it doesn't hurt nearly as badly, and adjusts the tailored suit jacket around his torso. "Seems like a decent way to pass time while we wait, don't you agree?"

We don't find the entrance, if there even is one, but Tim is back in the living room and I'm up near the front again when the door opens.

I reach for one of my guns automatically, flattening back against a wall, but tuck it away again when Damian — not a _damn _care in the world, standing in the arrogant, perfect postured stance _only _he could ever pull off — strides in, holding the door open. I step into view, and he raises one arched eyebrow and flicks his gaze up and down my frame.

"You've seen better days, Jason," he comments, and I snort and raise a hand to gesture towards him.

"So have you." He's got a dark bruise on the line of his jaw, one that looks like a strike from a baton or something similar, but it clearly hasn't fazed him. Apart from distracting from his ridiculous good looks — even _Dick_ agreed that Damian was fucking _gorgeous_, once our youngest brother was past looking like a ten year old — it's nothing, superficial. "More under the clothes?" I ask.

"A few," he answers with a small shrug. "Older though, fading. This was more recent, I made sure the guard died for it."

"Yes, it was very impressive," comes an older voice in a distantly sarcastic tone, and my throat clenches as Bruce passes through the door. He's leaning on a cane, and he's _old_ and that's damn obvious from this close, but it's him and he's still alive. "Jason, good to see you in the flesh."

I nod, swallowing down the rising emotion. "Good to see you too, B."

"Tim?" Bruce asks, as he moves into the room. How well he moves would be surprising, if he were _anyone_ else and I didn't know better. But this is my father, _Owlman_, and anyone who thinks he's just an old man limited to hacking is straight out fucking _stupid_.

"I'm here," Tim says from behind me, before I can answer for him, and I can hear him padding down the hallway towards us. Purposeful, obviously. If Tim didn't want to be heard he wouldn't be, not even with the pit fucking him up. He stops at my shoulder, and Bruce gives a thin smirk, standing to one side of the entry area. It occurs to me, about a second before he speaks, that Damian is still holding the door open.

"We have a guest, Jason, Tim."

Tim takes a sharp breath in as a third figure steps into the doorway almost timidly, and then straightens up to over my height, Bruce's height, and takes another step in. The same black hair and blue eyes as any of us, but built thicker than even Bruce ever was.

They rush for each other in the same moment, and Tim is laughing and _clinging _to the clone just as tightly as he clung to me, and Kon's arms are wrapped around my younger brother as he lifts them both a foot or so off the ground. Automatic flying; been a long time since I've seen that. I share a glance with Damian — who looks amused — before watching Bruce skirt Tim and Kon to head past me, towards the kitchen.

"There's food prepared," he calls over his shoulder, not that it interrupts the couple, "by which I mean that it's Christmas and I wasn't cooking, so there's Chinese food. Come sit down, boys."

Damian gives a soft snort and follows our father, shaking his head at the floating pair and briefly pausing next to me to brush our shoulders together and take my hand for a moment. "It is good to see you, Jason," he says quietly, and I squeeze his hand and bow my head.

"You too, Damian." He lets go, heading after Bruce, and I step forward towards Tim and Kon. They're kissing now, hands in all kinds of places they probably shouldn't be, but I can't really blame them. If there was someone for me to come back to— but there's _not_, so I'm not going to think about it.

I reach out and tug at Kon's coat, then at Tim's suit jacket when I don't get an answer, but their attempt to mold into one another is pretty much undisturbed. I sigh and brace my hands on my hips, staring up at them. Yeah, been a long time since I had to deal with shit like this. Besides, it's not like they don't deserve it. Tim's been suffering on his own, and if I know our great prison system Kon's been locked in a red sun cell with some added kryptonite since they captured him. Not fun.

"When you stop to breathe," I tell them both flatly, "come to the dining room. _No _sex before dinner, and I damn well _will _drag you both half-dressed out of a bed to eat if you try it. Got it?"

Tim flaps one hand at me in equal parts understanding and what I'm really sure is a request for me to go the fuck away, and I shrug and turn on my heel. They'll be in whenever they're ready, and if they take too long I'll go find them and drag them both to chairs. I honestly don't even care if they share a single chair, it doesn't matter to me. Bruce is already sitting when I get there, and Damian is unloading cartons of Chinese onto the table from inside one of the ovens, and I move to help him.

"They'll be a while," I say, to no one's surprise. "Plates?" Bruce points me in the right direction, and I pull some out for us. It feels familiar to be setting the table — but still strange; _none _of us ever got over Alfred finally dying — for all of us, to be putting together a family dinner for everyone. Even if one of the places is just family, not a brother.

I like Kon, I really do, but he's just not Dick. No one could ever replace the eldest of us.

"So?" I ask, when everything's laid out and we're all seated, Tim and Kon finally stumbling in and taking two seats that they shove as close together as possible, hands laced tight enough that it _must _be hurting Tim. He doesn't say a thing about it, if it is.

"What, Jason?" I start passing around cartons to either side of the table, and claim one for myself. Tim does a rather masterful job at dishing out what he wants onto his plate with only one hand. Kon is less graceful, and Tim takes over.

"You said you didn't bring us in just to be Owls again," I clarify, and I get the attention of everyone pretty much instantly, "but you didn't say it wasn't going to happen. So?"

Bruce gives a smile that all of our enemies know to fear, and leans back in his seat just a touch. "Well, I _am _looking at a new boy to pick up the role of Talon. His name is Terry."

* * *

><p>Yeah, I might have done that. I'm sorry for all those feels, and I'm sorry for killing Dick, but I couldn't help myself. Of everyone who could have died, it had to be him. Dick would never back down, and he'd never stop fighting and just hide the way all the other Owls can, and do. And no, Jason can never be happy. <em>Never<em>. It'll never happen. He's just going to keep losing people and getting everything he loves taken away.

So obviously, in continuity, this is the last of everything. It's very unlikely that anything I write will ever go after this. Also, yes, I think this is actually where this story ends up eventually. So kudos if you catch all the little things in this about the past that hasn't happened yet. Of course, the ending is also very open, and one should never rule out a reset of continuity from people messing with time. Yeah, I don't lock myself into anything. I'm bad like that.

I apologize for the delay, but I hope you enjoyed this collection, and I hope you'll stick with me as I go on to write more in this continuity! I've got three other Earth-3 stories, but only one that fits into this particular universe. One other is a standalone bit of Dick/Jason, and the last is a much longer series that's Bruce/Jason/Dick. It'll be a lot of fun.

See you next time!


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